


Dare To Think

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Series: Tales from the Special Branch [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Aurors, Bisexual!Blaise, Blowjobs, Case Fic, Dementor Rights, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Conflict, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish!Pansy, LGBTQ and Het Side Pairings, Legilimency, M/M, MACUSA Collaboration, Magical House, Morally Complex Characters, Necromancy, Occlumency, POC!Hermione, Political Scandal, Post-War, Post-war Trauma/Rebuilding, Prisoner Rights, Self-Doubt, Sex Toys, Shady Business Dealings, Shower Sex, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Strong Friendships, Switching, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Unspeakables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 388,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: After recent events in New York, Seven-Four-Alpha are set to return back to London. They've captured their primary target, but by no means settled their case. They've still got rogue Dementors at Azkaban, prying investigators from Luxembourg, and a far larger Death Eater threat to manage, not to mention pressure from their own higher ups. Draco is reeling from his loss, and Harry is trying to be the best boyfriend he can, which may mean not being Draco's guv any longer. Harry's uncertain what his team'll find as they press deeper in the investigation, but he knows they will all be tested, perhaps more than they can bear.But they haven't a choice, have they? It's the bloody Death Eaters, after all, and the political integrity of Wizarding Britain and their magical allies hangs in the balance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This book starts right after [These Secrets in Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11086218/chapters/24730251). While it's not crucial for you to have read the rest of the series first, it'll probably make a bit more sense if you have. :) Title once again courtesy of Ms. Kylie Minogue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco grieves, Harry comforts, and Hermione and Seven-Four-Alpha transfer a certain devious Death Eater from MACUSA custody in New York. **Warning for grief over the death of a family member.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's BACK!!! Welcome to the third book-length installment of Tales from the Special Branch!!! I can't believe the series is at 630,176 words up to now, and we're really just getting started from a plot and conspiracy standpoint, much less from the Drarry #relationship goals #HEA #eventually. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading and following me on this mad ride with Seven-Four-Alpha--your comments and support mean the WORLD to me and my team, and I honestly couldn't do this insane undertaking without your constant enthusiasm.
> 
> Speaking of indispensable, Sassy-Cissa and Noeon are buckled up and riding shotgun with me on this crazy, crazy journey into the wilds of Drarry emotional and sexual discovery, police procedural, political conspiracy, and Slytherin (and Ravenclaw, Althea would like to mention) snarkfest. Prepare your wittiest comebacks, your bunks, and your piles of tissue--shit's about to get real. No, actually. It really is. It had to eventually, didn't it?
> 
> A huge Special Branch team shout-out to the drarry squad, our darling, dearest phd_mama, Mama Badger and the Discord Peeps, and Cock Anon. And we also absolutely cannot forget our amazing chibaken and bixgirl who have provided us with so much laughter, inspiration, and joy in recent weeks. You're all the fucking best and we love you loads.

The funeral director's office smells musty. Old. Almost suffocatingly so, in Draco's opinion. Frankly, he thinks it also far too grim and dark, what with its dark wooden panelling that stretches two-thirds of the way up the otherwise creamy walls and the thick, plush, blood-red carpet. Not even the large bouquet of bright white roses and peonies and lilies spilling over the rim of a silver vase in the corner can lighten the space; besides, the sweet, almost cloying scent of the flowers does absolutely fuck-all to mask the stuffy stillness of the air and the ever so faint whiff of putridity that wafts through the half-open door. It's near-silent in the room, to the point that Draco can hear the soft huff of his breath with each slow exhale. It makes him uncomfortable, makes him shift in his chair, which then creaks beneath his thighs, loud and echoing in the peculiar, asphyxiating quiet. Draco feels odd, almost as if he's not really in his body. As if he's floating above himself, disinterested, barely engaged in the hushed conversation around him. 

Andromeda's sat beside Draco, neat and elegant in her scarlet brocade chair, her feet tucked properly to one side, full black skirt draped beautifully over her knees, pale hands clasped in her lap. She nods, listening to James McIntyre drone on. The gaunt, pale man with the too large head and the skeletal hands will be the one in charge of his father's body once the Aurors finally release it. McIntyre and McKenzie have buried generations of Malfoys, after all. 

It's odd to be caught in this dismal mausoleum, Draco thinks, on a Monday afternoon that's bright and sunny and bloody gorgeous outside. His mother had wanted to come, wanted to be the one to make the decisions about Lucius's interment, but she'd started crying over breakfast and hadn't been able to stop. Draco, on the other hand, feels nothing. Hadn't even when he'd looked down at his father's body in the St Mungo's morgue on Saturday morning to identify it, Harry beside him, gripping his hand tightly. 

That hadn't been Lucius Malfoy lying in the morgue drawer, not really; Draco had barely recognised the puffy, pale face, its familiar angles and sharpness softened by death, the silver-gilt hair so like Draco's own pooling around his father's shoulders. Except he had. But that body, lying still and silent, hadn't been the man he'd known. Hadn't been his father. The spark of Lucius Malfoy was gone. And Draco had turned away, walked out of the cold morgue with its stench of death and cleaning charms, and promptly sicked up in the bin just outside in the hallway, Harry coming up behind him to hold his hair out of his face and then to put his uninjured hand on Draco's back. 

Draco'd spent the next quarter-hour just sitting on the cold, stone floor, the taste of his sick still lingering in the back of his throat, his shoulders pressed against the white-tiled wall, Harry beside him, letting Draco lean on his shoulder. They hadn't spoken, either of them, and Draco'd been so bloody glad. He wouldn't have been able to bear it if Harry'd offered him platitudes. Told him that things would be all right. 

They won't be.

And Harry hadn't. Harry'd just let Draco rest his head on his chest, his good arm draped around Draco's shoulders, the other still clamped to his body with a sling. They'd sat there together in the middle of the bloody hallway, not giving a damn who walked past them, until Draco could stand without shaking. Draco hadn't cried the entire time. He doesn't have anything like that left in him any longer, he thinks. He just feels empty now. Hollowed out. 

To be honest, Draco wonders if he's normal. If other people feel this blank nothingness once the shock of death wears off. If it's even done so yet. Draco's not so certain the shock has, not entirely. But he knows that his mother can't do these things, can't make these arrangements. Draco doesn't want to either. There's some part of him that'd rather his father stay in the Aurors' care, if Draco's honest. He feels lost here in this cold, cavernous office on what should be a normal everyday afternoon, soft sunlight filtering through the wispy white lace curtains. 

But who else would do this if not him? He's the Malfoy heir. He knows his duty.

Pansy had once told him during their Auror training that terrible things happen on Mondays, and he'd laughed at her. She'd been hungover and grim and very much against being forced into Dawlish's course on proper investigative technique that day. Now he's not so certain she's wrong. 

Harry'd been the one to firecall Andromeda whilst Draco sat with his mother, trying to calm her down. Draco'd heard him in the hearth, asking Andromeda to come with Draco this afternoon whilst he and Teddy stayed with Narcissa, explaining the situation to her a low, careful voice. Harry would have come as well today if Draco had asked, but Draco didn't really want him to. They've only been dating a week, really, and Draco thinks it's just not done to make your new boyfriend go with you to plan your father's burial. They'd argued as Draco'd dressed himself, hushed and angry in Draco's bedroom, trying to keep his mother from hearing them, but Harry'd given in finally. Draco'd been relieved. He doesn't want to put Harry through more than he has to with his father's death. Draco knows Harry hated Lucius, and it means the world to Draco that Harry hadn't gone back to Grimmauld Place when they'd arrived last Thursday night. Instead he'd stayed at Draco's flat, understanding immediately not only that Draco needed to be with his mother but also that Draco needed Harry close by. 

And so Harry had been there quietly in the background all weekend, except for the few hours on Friday afternoon he'd had to go into the Ministry to help deal with the aftermath of Draco's father's death. Draco hadn't asked about that, not even when Harry'd come back. He hadn't wanted to know. Instead, he'd sat in his sitting room with his mother, letting her grieve around him, curled up on the sofa, whilst Draco sat in the armchair beside the window, sipped a glass of wine and wished he were back in New York, back with Harry, both of them lost in each other.

Damn his father to hell. 

He realises that McIntyre must have just said something to him; both the funeral director and his aunt are looking at him expectantly. "Sorry?" he asks. "It's just…" He trails off, uncertain what to say. He hates this feeling. 

"Yes, of course." McIntyre sounds sincerely sympathetic. "I was just asking about the casket. What sort you might like for your father. There's the line your grandfather was buried in, of course. Very plush. Polished mahogany with engraved sides. Lovely gold trim and tufted satin lining." He glances over at Andromeda. "And I've the ones the Black family have preferred over the years. Ebony, of course, with silver. Very tasteful. I have models if you'd like to see--"

"No." Draco can't. He rubs the back of his neck. "Something plain will do. Something simple. Fuck, just throw him into a sodding pine box and be done with it." He's so bloody exhausted, and his head's throbbing. He just wants to go home, to wrap his arms around Harry and be held.

McIntyre looks a bit taken aback, and Andromeda says, "Draco, your mother--"

"She'll understand." Draco feels a bit nauseous. He can feel the thrum of his pulse in his wrists. "My father was a criminal killed in Auror custody. I don't really think I want to bury him in grand style, Aunt Dromeda." He looks over at her, and she nods. Her dark curls are twisted up onto the back of her head, and for a moment, with the way her mouth turns down at the corners, she looks almost like his Aunt Bella. A chill goes through Draco, and his Mark throbs dully, but then she gives him a small smile and the illusion's gone. He presses his fingertips to his forearm and tries to breathe out. He's going mad, he thinks, with all of this.

His aunt turns back to McIntyre. "Draco's right, James," Andromeda says, her voice quiet. "There are other circumstances to consider. Something as ostentatious as our usual family traditions might be a bit…" She hesitates, bites her lip, then says, "Gauche."

McIntyre frowns a bit, but he leans back in his seat and nods. "Of course."

There's not much to say after that, really, but they go down the bloody checklist of bereavement. Draco refuses the _Prophet_ obituary. "Everyone already knows the bastard died," Draco says bluntly. "It's been on the front page two out of the past three days."

What Draco doesn't say is that he has no interest in a polite fiction being written about his father's life. There are no good things to say regarding Lucius Malfoy, no philanthropies, no small kindnesses on which to reflect, no people other than Narcissa and Draco who might even miss the sodding shit. Hell, his father's own brother-in-law had killed him, and his so-called friends had abandoned him. The haughty facts of Lucius's existence were writ in blood and pain and hatred and couldn't-- _wouldn't_ \--be covered with the tepid platitudes of memorial. Draco will never let them be. Not now. Not after everything. He won't allow his father's life to be rewritten, to be gentled by the man sitting across from him, to be boiled down to Lucius Malfoy is survived by a wife, Narcissa, a son, Draco, and a--what would Harry be? The very thought of Harry being mentioned in his father's death notice makes Draco laugh, sharp and bitter and louder than he expects. He catches himself. "Sorry." 

McIntyre looks quite discomfited, but he politely continues. "The service then," McIntyre says. "Perhaps the parish in which your parents were married--"

"No," Draco says flatly, and he sees the scandalised expression cross McIntyre's face before it smoothes away in the man's carefully cultivated look of concern. Even the least religious of witches and wizards still make some effort for births, weddings and funerals. Draco doesn't bloody well care. 

Even his aunt frowns at him. "Draco, you can't avoid--"

"There'll be five people there, so what's the bloody point?" Draco doesn't look at Andromeda. He's tired, so sodding tired, and he just wants all of this to be finished. "Besides we were only the Easter and Christmas sort anyway, and only that whilst Grandmother was alive. I haven't stepped foot in St Barnabas for years, and Father nearly had a bloody conniption when the latest vicar installed was a woman. So I'm not certain he'd give a fuck about those particular niceties either." McIntyre scrawls something on his notepad, his head bobbing. Probably judging him, Draco thinks, but he really doesn't give a fuck about that either. He sits forward in his chair. "Are we done here?"

McIntyre opens his mouth to answer, but Andromeda speaks first. "We aren't," she says, and there's an undercurrent of cold steel beneath her voice, causing Draco to glance at her finally. Her mouth's tight, and she's watching him, a furrow between her brows. And then it softens, and she sighs, looking back towards McIntyre. "We'll have a small, discreet announcement in the _Prophet_ , James. Nothing more than dates and remaining family. No obituary, no notice of where the service will be held. You'll allow me to see it before it's placed, please."

"Of course." McIntyre looks relieved. "I'll owl it over this afternoon."

"Thank you." Andromeda's back is ramrod straight. "I agree with Draco about the necessity of simplicity when it comes to arrangements, all things considered. We'll take a suitable, subdued casket. Something without embellishment. Polished walnut, perhaps, with simple fastenings. Along the lines of what we buried Ted in." Her voice cracks only slightly, and she doesn't look Draco's way. He feels angry, almost, but also relieved that she's stepped in, that she's making the decisions he can't bear to face. 

McIntyre's quill scratches across his notepad. "Yes, yes." He glances up at Andromeda. "The service?" His tone is careful, light, and his gaze flicks Draco's way. 

For a moment Andromeda hesitates, then her fingers brush the back of Draco's hand. "We'll have it graveside at the Malfoy crypt at St Barnabas with the parish vicar," she says finally, and she looks at Draco. "No pallbearers. No eulogy. No grand flowers. Perhaps just a very small spray across the casket. White lilies, I think?" McIntyre nods at that. "Again, very simple. Nothing inside the church itself. A compromise?"

All Draco can do is shrug his shoulders, barely able to make himself care anymore. He sinks back in his chair, letting his aunt take over, barely listening to her and McIntyre discuss the specifics. He wonders how Harry's doing with his mother and Teddy. If he's as overwhelmed as Draco is. 

And then Andromeda's standing, shaking hands with McIntyre, and Draco pushes himself out of his chair, lets McIntyre's cool fingers close around his. 

"We'll take care of your father once we receive him," McIntyre says, his voice kind, and Draco just nods. Merlin only knows when that will be. 

He follows his aunt through the quiet, softly lit outer salon of the funeral home, his boots sinking into the dark, plush carpet. He catches a glimpse of caskets through a doorway, neatly lined up, their lids raised to show off the tufted and shirred satin lining. Draco stills, looking at them, his gaze drawn to the wooden boxes gleaming in the light from the wall sconces, the commodification of death and grieving.

Draco's surprised when Andromeda walks back, stops beside him. They're silent for a long moment, then Draco manages to say, "It's a business, isn't it? Valourising the dead?"

"In a way." His aunt catches his hand with hers, slips her fingers through his. "But no death deserves dishonour, Draco. Not even for someone like your father." She looks over at him. "The rituals we engage in when one dies, the way we, the living, interact with the shells of our loved ones…" She hesitates, then sighs a soft breath. "It's for us, not them, my dear. They don't care. They're gone."

Draco's throat is tight and sore. "He doesn't deserve--"

"No." Andromeda's fingers are warm against his. "He doesn't. None of us deserve to be grieved, really, do we? I know you're angry at your father--and oh, I understand." She gives Draco a small smile. "I've lost my parents. My husband. My daughter and my son-in-law." She looks away; her face is pale in the dim light, her eyes shadowed. "I've been angry at every single one of them in some way. There are times, when I look at Teddy, that I have to walk away. Go back into my room and scream into a pillow at the bloody-minded selfishness of Dora, walking into that battle and leaving behind a three-week old son--" Her voice cracks, and Draco can hear the rage and grief that roils beneath her words. His aunt presses her lips together, exhales. "It's not easy when they leave us behind. And it's never kind."

"But…" Draco trails off. He doesn't know what to say. He pulls his hand away from his aunt's, folds his arms across his chest, uncertain. He's quiet for a moment, then he sighs. "It's not the same, is it? Not like your husband, or Nymphadora, or Lupin even. Father…" Draco closes his eyes, breathes in the musty, woody smell of the caskets. "The things he did…" The words catch in the back of his throat, make him cough. He turns away. "He died a coward's death. A criminal's, not a hero's." The words are a mere whisper. "How do I forgive him that?"

"You forget," Andromeda says, her voice quiet, "that I was Cygnus Black's daughter." 

Draco looks back at her then. He remembers his grandfather's death, back in the summer between his first and second year at Hogwarts. He'd never been close to Grandfather Black. Not like he was to Grandfather Abraxas. Cygnus Black was a hard, angry man. "He must have been difficult," Draco says after a moment. 

"One might say that." Andromeda gives him a small smile. "But he was my father, and for all his many faults, when he died…" She bites her lip, shakes her head. "I couldn't even be at his funeral because of my father's hatred, because my mother burned me from the family tapestry. I couldn't bury either of my parents, and as angry as I was with them--I wanted to be. I wanted to grieve them, to say farewell, to remember the things about them that I loved, the moments from my childhood that I treasured. So trust me when I say that all of this, all these trappings, all this bollocks isn't for anyone but those left behind." She looks around them, taking in the solemn tapestries on the wall, the gleaming caskets. "But there's something to be said for being able to stand there and to say a proper goodbye. Even if there's part of you that hates him still." She reaches for Draco, pulls him to her. "I'm so sorry, darling. I really am."

Draco lets his aunt hold him, lets her stroke his back, lets her comfort him as the grief he thought had dried up seeps out again from beneath his eyelashes, hot and burning and wet. 

He doesn't know how he's going to get through this. How he can. 

"I want to go home," he says finally, his fingers twisted in the sleeves of his aunt's robe. "I need…" He can't finish his thought, but his aunt seems to understand. 

"Harry," Andromeda says gently, and Draco just nods. 

He feels a fool. 

But Andromeda's already leading him towards the Floo, reaching for the jar of silvery powder on the chimneypiece. Draco can barely get the address out. His throat hurts so badly. But the green flames spin him away from the stale stuffiness of McIntyre and McKenzie's, and when he lands in his own Floo, stepping out after his aunt, he can hear Teddy's quick chatter and his mother's soft laugh, followed by Harry's low rumble. 

They're in the kitchen, all three of them, sitting around the table with cups of tea and still-warm chocolate biscuits. Draco's counters are destroyed, flour and bits of chocolate everywhere, but Draco doesn't care because his mother's smiling down at a blue-haired Teddy who's explaining to her rather excitedly about Puddlemere's latest match. She reaches out a hand, smoothes Teddy's hair back. It turns a soft teal beneath her fingers before changing back to blue. 

"Well, aren't you all cosy?" Andromeda says with a wide smile of her own, and Narcissa looks up at them, the flicker of mirth on her face fading slightly. 

"Are you done already then?" Narcissa asks, and Andromeda walks over to the table and leans over Teddy, taking one of the biscuits from the plate in the centre. 

Harry's already standing, giving Andromeda his chair. "I'll put the kettle on again, shall I?" He moves towards the hob.

"That'd be lovely, dear." Andromeda sits, then looks over at her sister. "James has all the information he needs. He and his people are just waiting for the Aurors to release the body tomorrow, hopefully. That's the last he's heard at least. We'll plan on Wednesday for the service, but that can be moved back if we need. The vicar understands the situation."

Narcissa looks down at the crumbled biscuit on her plate. "Thank you."

Harry walks past Draco, letting his hand rest on Draco's back for a moment. "All right?" he asks, his voice quiet, and Draco nods. 

"As well as can be expected." Draco keeps an eye on his mother, half-listening to her asking Andromeda about the arrangements. "I was horrible at it all."

"I'm fairly certain you're not meant to be good at it." Harry picks the kettle up a bit awkwardly with his good hand, fills it with water from the tap. He sets it back down with a heating charm on it, then leans back against the flour-strewn counter. His wounded arm's still in the sling, draped across his faded blue Weird Sisters t-shirt, the neckline stretched and frayed, and he winces. Draco knows Harry's shoulder has been hurting for the past couple of days. Frankly, he has his suspicions about whether or not Harry's taking all his pain potions, but he doesn't have it in him to push the question. Not right now at least. Not when Harry's giving him that concerned look from behind smudged glasses. "Sorry about the mess," Harry says. "Teddy wanted biscuits, and it seemed to amuse your mother to watch."

"Chocolate biscuits are the best," Teddy shouts from the table, through a mouthful of crumbs. "Even Uncle Harry's."

"Yes, darling," Andromeda says, running her hand through his hair. "They rather are, aren't they?" She looks over at her sister and smiles. "Your Aunt Cissy ate them by the handfuls when she was your age."

Narcissa's mouth quirks at the corners. "The elves used to sneak them to me after lunch, as I recall."

"And you hated sharing." Andromeda laughs, and she reaches across the table, takes her sister's hand.

Draco looks away from them. He wants to lean his head on Harry's shoulder, wants to say thank you, to tell Harry he loves him. Instead he just shrugs and reaches for his wand, sweeping it across the counter. The flour and chocolate swirls up, then Vanishes in a soft pop, leaving the counter mostly clean again. Draco watches it disappear, and he feels oddly bereft. Empty. 

He also wants to scream, to grab the flour tin and throw it across the kitchen, to watch it explode into a puff of white. He's reaching for it when Harry's hand closes on his.

"Don't," Harry says quietly, and Draco looks up at him. Harry's watching him with bright, worried eyes. 

"I wasn't--" 

Harry's thumb traces a small circle over the inside of Draco's wrist. "I got an image." He gives Draco a small smile. "But throwing flour isn't going to help you feel better. It'll just upset your mum. And then Teddy'll want to join in, and it'll be a bloody awful mess to clean up."

Draco knows he's right. He turns, his back to his mother and Andromeda, and he stares at the kettle, waiting for it to boil, his elbows on the edge of the apron sink. It's strange, he thinks, how this flat doesn't feel like his any longer. He wants to go back to Grimmauld Place with Harry, wants to feel the warmth and the welcome of the house. Not that he doesn't love his flat. He does, but it feels wrong now, like his mother's overwhelming it all. Taking it away from him. Draco rocks forward, presses his hand to his jaw, over his mouth. "I hate it here," he says finally, softly enough that his mother can't hear. "I'm going mad--"

"You're not." Harry shifts beside him, lets his hand trail up Draco's back, then back again. The faint pressure feels good, and Draco arches back into it. He closes his eyes, sighs as Harry's palm presses between Draco's shoulder blades. He misses Harry's touch. Misses being alone with Harry, misses Harry pushing him into a rumpled mattress, the whole of the New York skyline shining in the darkness around them. 

Draco's chest aches. "I can't do this, Harry," he whispers. "I can't bury him. I'm so angry still…" He looks away, and he can't say anything else. 

Harry's good arm slides around Draco's waist, and Harry pulls Draco up against him, resting his chin on Draco's shoulder, his slinged arm caught between them. Draco can feel Harry's knuckles against the small of his back. He knows he should chide him, knows it must be hurting Harry to hold him like this, but it feels good and calm and comforting, and Draco's selfish enough to just relax back against Harry's body and let himself be held. 

"It's all right," Harry says, and he turns his head, his lips brushing against Draco's ear. "We'll get through this. Both of us." Before Draco can protest, Harry says, "I'm not going anywhere, love."

That last word sends a shiver through Draco's body. "Harry," he says, and when he looks at Harry, the soft warmth in Harry's eyes nearly takes Draco's breath away. Draco turns, pulls away enough so that he can touch Harry's face. "Merlin but I love you." It still feels mad to be able to say that. To know that Harry won't flinch away, won't look at him in disgust.

Harry's smile widens just a bit. "I know." He reaches up with one hand, brushes Draco's hair back behind his ear. "Just remember. You don't have to do any of this alone."

It's an odd feeling to believe him, Draco thinks. "You're an idiot," he says softly, and he thinks he could lose himself in Harry's gaze. 

The kettle goes off, loud and sharp and rattling behind him. Harry gives Draco a regretful look. "Best steep some tea," he says, but he runs a knuckle down Draco's cheek before he leans in and kisses Draco, his lips soft and warm and careful. "Love you," he whispers against Draco's mouth, and when Harry steps away, Draco catches his mother and aunt watching them from across the kitchen, over Teddy's bright blue head, neither one seeming terribly surprised. 

"Well, Cissy, perhaps Teddy and I _will_ stay for dinner tonight," Andromeda says, a small smile quirking one corner of her mouth. "It seems there might be some things we ought to be caught up on?"

Harry Summons the teapot from the kitchen table, catching it with one hand. "We're madly in love, Andy," he says, his voice light, but Draco can tell by the set of Harry's shoulders that he's nervous. "I'd rather thought you might have figured that out by now." Draco's gaze flicks towards his own mother, who reaches for her teacup and lifts it to her mouth. 

"I may have had my suspicions." Andromeda's watching them both. She picks up another biscuit. "But I'm pleased. For both of you."

"Nan," Teddy says, pulling on her sleeve. "Don't eat all of them. Uncle Harry made them for _me_." Andromeda breaks the biscuit in half and hands part of it back to Teddy. 

Harry pours the boiling water over the tea bags and closes up the teapot again. The look he gives Draco is careful, a bit worried. _Sorry,_ he mouths, but Draco just smiles back at Harry, lets his hand settle on Harry's back. He wants everyone to know he's in love with Harry. Even his mother, who's giving him a long, even look. 

Draco doesn't give a damn what she thinks. 

He leans in, kisses Harry, hard and quick and fast, his fingers tangled in Harry's hair.

If anyone can help Draco get through the nightmare of the next few days, it'll be Harry. This idiot Gryffindor with the slow, easy smile and the toe-curling kisses that he's fallen in love with. Draco can keep his head above water if Harry's nearby, can face whatever he must if he knows Harry's waiting for him at the end of it. That realisation terrifies Draco whilst, at the same time, sending his heart soaring. Harry promised they could do this together, that he'd be here for Draco. 

And Draco believes him. Circe help him, but he fucking believes him.

***

Pansy sits on the edge of her hotel bed, folding her knickers and wondering how badly her flat will smell when she gets home. It's only been two weeks, and Pansy'd left it fairly clean, but her place has a tendency to get a bit whiffy when she doesn't air it out properly. It's an old building and the plumbing is atrocious, but she loves being in Camden near the clubs and pubs and the odd mix of Muggles that wander down her street at night. Not to mention, the shabby, rundown location also has the added benefit of horrifying Camilla Parkinson which brings great joy to Pansy's shrivelled little heart. She's fairly certain her mother would have a complete meltdown if she knew that Pansy's downstairs neighbour's a charming weed dealer by trade who always helps Pansy carry her groceries up the stairs when she came back from market. Liam's a lovely bastard, in Pansy's opinion.

She tucks a stack of knickers into her satchel, then reaches for the rest of the freshly laundered pile of underthings. Pansy hadn't cared what the others did yesterday afternoon whilst they waited to hear back from Granger about Dolohov's extradition; she'd found a laundromat nearby and managed to figure out how to do two loads of clothes in the oversized American machines without having to resort to magic. Well. Too much, at least. She really hates going home with dirty laundry.

According to Granger, they're due to leave with Dolohov at ten sharp New York time tomorrow morning, which means getting to the Chambers Portkey station a half-hour earlier and then waiting around while all of the paperwork is reviewed and all of the security goons are happy. Pansy's never been on an official extradition before, but Granger's assured them that they'll take every precaution the Department of Mysteries can devise. Dolohov'll be manacled and muzzled magically on top of that to keep him from casting any wandless or nonverbal magic. Honestly, the security briefing this afternoon had been more than a bit sombre, especially given the pall cast by the death of Draco's father in Lestrange's ambush. None of them want to admit it, but they're all worried about this extradition, about something going wrong again. Pansy loves her job, she truly does, but she doesn't want to die for it. Doesn't want to be another Phoebe Rayne or Winston Chang or Lotte Marquandt. She's a fucking lab rat, for Merlin's sake. Not a field officer. 

Still, she knows the dangers of being in magical law enforcement. They all do. Things happen. Aurors get hurt, get killed in the line of duty regularly. A raid can go wrong, a suspect can throw a Killing Curse. Circe, it's not like the lab doesn't have dangers of its own. A Dark object could cross her desk. A potion could implode. An experiment could go badly. Pansy tries not to think about it. If she'd wanted a dull life she would have found a boring desk job somewhere in the Ministry where all she did was push around paperwork. 

That doesn't mean she's not terrified about tomorrow morning, though. 

Secretly, Pansy's glad that Granger will be with them. The guv's injured, and besides, with Draco, he's got enough to worry about without adding Dolohov and the Yanks to the mix. None of them had questioned his going home alongside Draco last Thursday night. Draco had needed Potter, so Potter went. Not even Granger had protested, as far as Pansy can tell. It's odd, she thinks, how they've all just accepted whatever this is between Potter and Draco, how obvious it is that they're mad for each other. Sometimes Pansy's jealous of them both, when she glances over at them and sees the way the guv's looking at Draco, as if he'd burn the whole damned world down if Draco asked him to. Pansy doesn't think Tony would do that for her. Then again, she's not certain she'd want him to, if she's ready for that from him.

But Pansy knows it's hard for Draco and the guv too. She wonders what will happen if Potter's relationship to Draco endures or, heaven forbid, becomes more public. It's going to be nasty if it comes out that the Saviour of the Goddamned Wizarding World is shagging a Marked Death Eater. On both sides, really. From the idiots who expect their Saviour to be a bloody saint and from the opposition, who see Potter as the reason their cause was defeated, their Dark Lord killed. Pansy grew up on the fringes of those circles, was friends with people like Draco and Theo, Vince and Greg, Millicent and Daphne. Half-believed what they'd told her, learned their prejudices herself by the time she'd entered Hogwarts, much to her mother's unease. Her own father had moved in those circles, played both sides for the sake of his business, whilst never pledging fealty to the Dark Lord. _Just in case those idiots win_ , Pansy remembers him telling her mother during hols before Pansy's seventh year. Camilla had been furious with Terry; she hadn't spoken to him for half the summer, and when Pansy had asked her father why, he'd just given her a long, even look and said that her mother's family didn't care for men like Lord Voldemort. Pansy can still recall the shiver that'd gone through her at her father's use of that name. But Terry had told her not to be afraid of a madman's made-up name, told her that they were Parkinsons, and Parkinsons would always land on their feet. He'd bloody well make certain of that. Whatever Camilla might think.

Pansy had still been afraid. She's not certain she ever stopped, and she worries about her father, about his certainty he can control people, that he can use them to his advantage. There'll be a day, she thinks, that he can't. Perhaps it's already started with Eustace. She sighs, folds a bra carefully and sets it aside. Pansy hates worrying like this. About her family. About her friends. About everything. 

Draco'd been almost catatonic when he'd left for London on the guv's arm, Pansy thinks. She hopes it's better now that he's home, but she doubts it. She hasn't yet heard when the funeral will be, but she and Blaise and Althea will be there. They've already discussed as much, the morning after Draco left, in fact. No matter how horrible Lucius Malfoy was--and he was a sodding arsehole of sodding arseholes in her mind--no one deserves to bury a parent alone, it's just not right. Despite years of wishing the opposite, Pansy murmurs a quick blessing and thanks to HaShem that her parents are still alive. She can't really imagine her world without them. Whom would she mortally disappoint, after all? 

A deep sadness settles over Pansy as she turns back to her pile of clothes, wondering what the weather is like in London, whether it will turn cool again or be hot when they return. She's almost become used to the excesses of New York, the blistering heat of midday, the stifling warmth after dark, and the almost unbearable chill of the MACUSA cooling charms and the Muggle air-con at the Hilton. She's bought a few wraps to cover her shoulders, but the temperature shifts still astonish and irritate her.

She pauses on a pair of black lace knickers, a near match to the ones she ruined with Tony. It seems so far away now that she left her pants on his sink, even if it's not been a week. But so much has happened - the raid, Dolohov, the roses from Dimitri Godunov. It's more than enough, to Pansy's mind. It's time for life to slow down a bit.

Pansy runs a hand over the intact seams of this pair, thinking of that last encounter with Tony. They've seen each other, of course--several times in the halls of MACUSA this weekend,in fact, whilst she was working furiously to finish case details before they left--but she hadn't dared speak to him after Eustace'd been taken into custody. He'd kept his distance as well, although she'd caught him looking after her when she passed by. Tony's too close to that investigation, they both know. Pansy's half-glad that Eustace is being charged by MACUSA instead of the British Ministry. She can walk away from it, won't have to face the indignity of an investigation into her brother-in-law, won't be forced into the whole of the Auror force knowing her family's dirty secrets the way they have with Draco's father. 

Still, Pansy doesn't want to know what Tony plans to do about her own father, doesn't want to think about how her Eustace's idiocy will affect her family on the official end of things, what might be uncovered, what Tony might find out. There are things about her father and his business that Pansy wants to ignore, wants to tell herself she's never noticed. And Pansy wants to pretend that it can be okay, that she and Tony can still be on good terms, that she can still fall into bed with him without thinking about all of this, but really, who's she fooling? She can't forget the reasons he began his relationship with her, at least at the start. He used her, and although she wants to believe him that it had all changed once they'd started sleeping together, really, in her experience, men will say almost anything to keep getting fucked. She wonders what his soon to be ex-wife, Eva, might have to say about it, but she stops that train of thought before she gets too maudlin and pathetic. It's when she thinks of Eva--the rare time she does--that Pansy has to admit she's not a nice person. She'd never cared about Eva's feelings in all of this, and if she's honest, she's not certain she does even now.

Whether she can bear to forgive Tony is still up for final review, Pansy thinks. She doesn't need to know yet if she has to hate him forever. His cock really is fucking brilliant, after all, and Pansy does love a good, thick prick deep inside of her. Maybe at some point she can just use Tony for sex, she muses. It's really all he can offer her, after all, and Merlin, is he ever bloody reliable in that department. She bites her lip, thinking of the myriad times he's brought her off for what felt like hours until she was limp and gasping from release.

The knock at the door catches Pansy off-guard. She's not expecting Blaise right now -- he and Durant had been holed up all weekend in Blaise's room, doing Merlin only knows what, and Blaise has been paying for it today. He was groggy and visibly sex sore this morning, with love bites down the side of his throat, but terribly, terribly smug. Really, Pansy hates him. So bloody much. Still, he'd also been a bit grim, saying it was just an extended one-night stand. 

_Bollocks_ , Pansy thinks as she pushes herself up off the bed. This can't be the last time he and Jake Durant will see each other, not the way their teams are so intertwined now, but, well, it's not her private disaster, is it? She's looking forward to dragging Blaise out for drinks with Mills and Draco when they're back home, although a shiver runs down her spine as she wonders how much they've changed in New York. Deep down, she worries this fortnight has driven a wedge between them all, although she can't really see how. But she can feel the separation lurking still, worming its way into the cracks between them.

Pansy walks to the door, holding her wand by her side out of caution, and opens it. She's fairly certain it'll be Althea on the other side, wanting something from her, perhaps a drink even. Pansy could use a good companion for the evening, especially one who isn't Tony.

When she sees Daisy standing there instead, Pansy blinks, a bit startled, then pulls her sister inside rapidly, looking around in the hall to make sure no one's seen, before slamming the door shut.

"Circe, what are you doing?" Pansy's breathless with worry. She doesn't know why, exactly, but she has a sense it can't be a good reason that brings her sister all the way down to the Financial District on a Monday in the late afternoon.

"Hello yourself, sister mine." Daisy pushes up her incredibly expensive sunglasses, and she leans in to kiss Pansy's cheek. She smells fantastic, like chocolate and roses, or something warmer. Muskier. It's definitely a fuck-me perfume, Pansy thinks, her senses coming to full alert. She wonders whom Daisy's wearing it for, and why now when the investigation into Eustace's only just begun.

Pansy steps back, eyeing her effortlessly chic sister, who's wearing a lightweight black jacket and sleek, matte black flats, her dark hair twisted up into a tight topknot. Her trousers are some sort of beautifully clinging, heavy knit that must have cost a small fortune, and her ivory tank is whisper-thin silk. She doesn't have any jewelry on except for a gorgeous emerald pendant that looks new. Pansy notes that Daisy's not wearing her wedding ring.

"So, what brings you to the Millenium Hilton?" Pansy decides to keep her tone light. This is Daisy, and no matter how much trouble she's in, Pansy will help her, even if she needs to dissolve bodies in the bathtub or cross the border illegally. Canada can't be too far away, Pansy thinks, although the exact distance eludes her at the moment.

Daisy frowns slightly, looking at Pansy's open suitcase. "You're packing." 

Pansy shrugs. "Yeah."

"Oh." Daisy hesitates, then says, "I wanted to say goodbye. I won't see you for a while."

Pansy nods, wondering how Daisy knew she's leaving tomorrow. Granger just gave them the details this afternoon, and Pansy had planned on ringing her sister later tonight. "Well, I won't be far away, Dinks. You could come and visit, you know. Mother would love to see you."

 _If you're not charged with conspiracy and not allowed to travel,_ Pansy adds mentally, and she sends another prayer up to HaShem that Daisy will be spared all of that bollocks, and not just for her sister's sake. After all of the bumps and bruises of the last week, not to mention Lucius Malfoy's death, Pansy's beyond ready for a good spell of boredom and drudgery in the lab. She wants to do crossword puzzles in the back of the _Prophet_ at night. Or pick up random strangers from the club down the street from her flat and fuck them senseless. She's not decided which, yet. 

But either way, she's bloody well not going to shag Tony until he proves himself worthy, not with Daisy in the mix too. Pansy might just need to cut him out of her life entirely. She's not going to have her heart broken again, or her family threatened. She'd rather die than see any harm come to any Parkinson, ever, through her own inability to keep her knickers up and her legs closed. 

"I didn't mean England, Pinks." Daisy is looking out of the window, up towards Midtown, her hands pressed flat on the ledge. "The views here are great, aren't they? I can't believe the Ministry sprang for a fortnight here." She glances back at Pansy. "Are the baths clean?"

Pansy almost laughs, as her sister doesn't usually stay hotels shabbier than the wizarding wing of the Four Seasons when she travels. And then Pansy remembers, Daisy might be separating from Eustace, and her mouth snaps shut. In an instant, Pansy revises her image of her perfect, golden older sister and her impeccable life. There's a lot of change happening, and Pansy's not sure her heart can catch up, but she can at least avoid bringing attention to her lapse. She still wants to think of Daisy as invulnerable; she wants to think of her as leading a dashing, elegantly illustrious life in New York. Pansy's not sure she can deal with Daisy's new vulnerability.

"What did you mean?" Pansy asks, voice throaty, although she's really not sure she wants to know.

Daisy half turns then, fingering her pendant. Her bottom lip's caught between her teeth, and she sighs. "I'm going to be gone for a bit. I won't--" Daisy stops, tilts her head. "I'll be okay. I just won't be reachable."

Pansy's alarmed, and she's sure it shows on her face. "Daisy, you can't run." She takes a step closer to her sister. "You're meant to be a witness--"

"They can't force me to testify against my husband," Daisy says, her voice quiet. "It's part of MACUSA law. I can choose not to. The lawyers have said."

"So you're leaving." Something twists in Pansy's stomach, hard and frightened and unsettled. "Have MACUSA cleared you for that?" At her sister's faint smile, Pansy's heart sinks. "Daise. You know they'll catch you. What Eustace's done is bad, but it'd be worse for the two of you to run away."

Right now, Eustace is up for possession of illegal magical substances, conspiracy, and criminal malice. Pansy can't imagine what flight or worse will add to his sentence, not to mention Daisy's role in his departure.

Daisy shakes her head. "His family bailed him out, Pinks. Not me." She looks away, a tight, bitter expression twisting her face. "That fucking bastard can go to Oudepoort, for all I care."

"Then…" Pansy hesitates, thinking of the perfume, then eyeing the emerald Daisy is fiddling with. It's huge, easily above five carats or Pansy will eat a pair of her own knickers. 

And the Knut drops.

"Godunov," Pansy says, her heart clenching in her chest and the vision of a hundred perfect white roses rising in her mind, their scent rich and sweet, filling the whole of the incident room. She looks at her sister. "You're running away with Godunov." She sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. "Oh, shit, Daisy. You stupid arse." 

Daisy turns back to the view of Manhattan. "Dimitri thinks he can get them to drop charges," she says, and there's a steely bite to her tone. "But I'm not going to be around much."

"You know this is an idiotic idea." Pansy shakes her head, but she knows her sister. Once Daisy decides she wants to do something, almost nothing can deter her. "He's a criminal."

"He's powerful." Daisy glances back at Pansy. "And he can protect me."

That brings Pansy up short. "From whom?"

Daisy doesn't answer. She just turns again, leans her arse against the window ledge, looking away from Pansy, her arms folded across her chest. 

"Fucking hell." Pansy wants to shake her sister, to tell her what bloody shit taste she has in men. But that'd make Pansy a hypocrite, wouldn't it? She'd been charmed by Godunov herself. She runs a hand over her face, pushing her loose hair back from her forehead. She feels frumpy and plain sitting here in a pair of old leggings and a too tight t-shirt she'd bought in Hogsmeade during third year before her tits had grown in properly. She'll never be the graceful, stylish creature her sister is. But then again, she's not about to make the stupidest mistake of her life either and throw her lot in Godunov. "You're really going to do this."

"I am." Daisy sighs. "I just came to say goodbye, Pinks. Not get a lecture." She meets Pansy's gaze then, and Pansy knows nothing she says is going to change her sister's mind. Her shoulders slump. 

"If he so much as hurts one hair on your head," Pansy says, her voice low, "I'll fucking kill him."

Daisy gives her a wry smile, flicks a white fibre off the arm of her jacket. "And you're sure I can't defend myself? That he isn't the one who should worry?"

Honestly, Pansy isn't sure at all. 

"But you're my only sister," Pansy says, and she can't help the way her voice wobbles a bit. "His bloody siblings can avenge him, if they need to."

Daisy stills. She looks over at Pansy, her face softening. "I'm really glad you're on my side," she says, and she walks over, sits beside Pansy on the bed. "But I don't want you to worry."

"You know I'm going to." Pansy leans her head against Daisy's shoulder. Daisy turns her head, kisses Pansy's temple. Pansy sighs. "What am I going to tell Mother?"

"That I'll be fine." Daisy pulls back, reaches into a pocket of her jacket, pulling out a tightly rolled parchment. Pansy can see the spellwork from here.

"What's this?" Pansy doesn't reach out a hand to take it yet, even though Daisy's holding it towards her.

"It's for Daddy," Daisy says. "It's spelled to open just for him." She gives Pansy an even look. "So don't try, my lovely Auror sister."

Pansy eyes it. "Do I want to know what's in it?"

Daisy shakes her head. "No. I think it's probably best if you don't. But you're the only one I trust to carry it."

Pansy sighs. Daisy knows her too well. She's going to bring whatever that is to her father, on a secure diplomatic transport, no less, and she's not going to betray her sister's trust. "Fine. But I'm going to chase you myself if I get in trouble for whatever the fuck this is." At least it isn't a body, she thinks, although she has no intention of telling Granger about it regardless. It'll fit in her pocket, she thinks. "Can I miniaturise it?" 

Daisy nods. "It should be fine." She stands, draws her jacket a bit more tightly around her, fiddling with her buttons. "Be careful. You'll want to keep out of the action on this one." There's a worry line between her brows. "Trust me. There are factions..." She trails off, then sighs again. "Don't get involved."

"I'm just a lab rat," Pansy says, although her stomach swoops a bit. She's a lab rat who's going to be transporting a known Death Eater tomorrow.

"Hide in your laboratory and don't come out," Daisy says. She chews on her lip. "Dimitri says--"

Pansy shakes her head, cutting her sister off "I don't want to know, Dinks. Not one word more."

Her sister nods, then gives her a quick hug, the whisper of her mouth next to Pansy's ear. "Stay out of it all, Pinks. Please." Daisy's voice breaks a bit. "I mean it. Don't be a hero. Or a bloody Gryffindor."

And then Daisy's gone, the door of Pansy's room closing behind her with a quiet snick, and Pansy's left clutching a magicked scroll of uncertain contents in a musky cloud of chocolate and rose, wondering when she'll see her older sister again. 

She's strangely bereft at the thought that it might be longer than she can imagine.

***

When Harry slips out from beneath the duvet, Draco's still sleeping, his pale hair fanned out over the smooth grey cotton of his pillow. Harry thinks about waking him, of rolling Draco onto his back and pulling his legs wide so he can suck Draco's prick, but settles for brushing a kiss across Draco's cheek instead. They haven't had sex since they'd come back to London. Draco's been too wrapped up in his grief, and Harry won't push him. It's nothing that he can't take care of with his own hand, and Draco needs Harry to hold him at night, to be there for him when he wakes up from a bad dream. Harry can do that. He wants to, and he won't think about how odd that is, how he's never been with a partner in this way, not like he is with Draco. Ginny had always told him he was a shit boyfriend, and every other person he'd dated, all the way through Jake, had concurred.

Harry doesn't want to be a shit boyfriend for Draco. Not right now. Not ever. 

"I'm going to go into the Ministry," he says softly against Draco's ear. "I'll be back when I can."

Draco mumbles something and shifts deeper into his pillow. Harry's glad Draco's sleeping, at least. He's barely eaten for two days, and Harry can tell that Draco's nerves have been fraying under the constant, quiet sorrow of his mother. Privately, Harry wonders whether Narcissa shouldn't be staying with her sister, who might be able to handle her grief better than her son can, but he's not going to say anything before the funeral tomorrow. For now, they all just have to muddle along as best they can.

Harry picks out dark trousers and a white shirt from the satchel he's still living out of, frowning at the wrinkles before quickly spelling them smooth. At some point he'll need to go back to Grimmauld or have Kreacher send over some new clothes. But his cleaning charms will have to do for now. He's picked up a few tricks over the years, although Draco still thinks his housekeeping spells abysmal, and he's probably not half-wrong. Harry pads over to Draco's en suite, setting his clothes on the corner of the sink before taking a quick morning slash. It feels odd to be almost living here in Draco's space. Harry isn't certain he likes it. He misses Grimmauld and the way his house would open up for Draco, the attempts it made to make certain Draco was comfortable, welcome even. Draco's flat feels closed off to Harry. Too quiet. Too filled with sadness.

It's already twenty after seven and Harry needs to hurry. Gawain had summoned him by owl last night for eight o'clock sharp, and Harry assumes he wants to get a briefing on the MACUSA situation before he goes into meetings about Dolohov. Hermione had said something about Luxembourg being interested in charging Dolohov in connection with the transport deaths, even though those were clearly committed by Lestrange, but Harry assumes that's a political manoeuvre, both to use against Lestrange when he's caught and to force the British Ministry's hand on something else. Honestly, it's all going to get bloody ugly soon, Harry thinks. He rubs his left hand over his face, checking in the mirror to make sure the bags under his eyes aren't too awful. Even though they'd spent barely a fortnight in New York, his body feels like it's two in the morning right now. Christ, but he hates adjusting to time zones and Portkey drag.

Harry lines up his potions and takes them one by one, all but the strongest pain potion--he needs his mind clear if he's to face Gawain today--then starts the shower. He manages to soap his hair well enough, keeping the water shield around his dressing since the skin's still fragile. He can clean it later with a spell the Healer in New York taught him.

His shoulder aches deeply, and although it's probably going to be fine, Harry's pride has taken a hit as well. It's bad enough that he got nailed by Dolohov, but the fact that he went down before the action really got going bloody well infuriates him. Then again, Harry supposes, it's just as well he took the attack so the team could fight. And Harry's pleased for Zabini--he knew Zabini had this in him, and after the ambush in Prague and the Crickerly attack, Zabini's confidence had flagged. Terribly. To be honest, Harry thinks Zabini's earned the triumph of Dolohov's collar more than anyone, and he'd shown his prowess under pressure.

And if some of Zabini's confidence returning also includes his sleeping with Harry's ex, well, Harry has no bloody right to be offended by that, whether or not it stings. Jake deserves someone who wants to be only with him, Harry thinks. They probably think it's temporary, Jake and Zabini both, but, well, Harry has seen how Zabini looks at Jake. Eventually they'll figure it out, he supposes. It's none of Harry's affair any longer, and he's just as happy to be sidelined with an injury so he can care for Draco right now. He only hopes he's doing more good than harm lately. It's hard to tell with Draco sometimes, especially when he's as pulled in and withdrawn as he's been the past few days. Harry thinks Draco needs to cry, needs to let himself fall apart, to rage, to be furious and grief-stricken and unhappy. It worries Harry that Draco's so silent and shut down. 

Still, everyone grieves in different ways. Harry remembers what it had felt like that summer after the war, how tired and shuttered he'd been, going to funeral after funeral, unwilling to let his sadness be put on display for other people. Draco's more like him than either of them might like to admit. Besides, Ron's right. All Harry can do is be here for Draco. Wait for Draco to tell him what he needs, wait for Draco to feel what he's going to feel. 

Harry uses magic to dress himself, wincing as he holds his arm out to let the shirt smooth itself over the still reddened skin of his shoulder. He's going to carry a lacework of scars across his arm, and Harry'd be fine with it if they didn't bloody itch so much right now. Also his scapula's beginning to ache from the immobilisation, and he's going bloody mad from not being able to go to the gym. Maybe he can do something in water or at least some yoga soon, he thinks. He's going to go spare if not. Harry hates not being active, hates the way his body gets twitchy, tense. He needs to purge some of that energy somehow before he implodes. The last thing Draco needs to deal with at the moment is Harry in sodding mood. Even Harry knows that. 

Walking out to the hall with his hair still damp and his braces newly situated, his arm in its sling, Harry spies Narcissa in the kitchen, sitting at the island counter. Even though he's late, he walks in to check on her. It's part of what he's doing for Draco, this attempt to step in, to help in any way he can, even if it's something as simple as making certain his mother's fed and cared for. 

"Good morning," she says softly, her face drawn and deep shadows under her eyes. She looks regal even like this, Harry thinks, clutching a cup of tea and, judging by the redness of her eyes themselves, clearly having sobbed half the night.

Harry touches her shoulder as he walks past, and she smiles at him. "Good morning," he says. He thinks about pouring a tea of his own, but he hasn't the time. He takes a scone from the breadbox instead, and breaks off a piece, walking back to lean against the island beside her. "Sleep well?" He pops the bit of scone into his mouth. It's a bit dry, but still delicious, studded with currants and faintly sweet.

"Enough." 

That's obviously not true, but Harry doesn't press the matter. Instead he offers Narcissa half the scone. Crumbs scatter across the marble counter, and Harry brushes them away. "Eat," he says. "You can't live off tea alone. Even laced with firewhisky." He's caught the smell of it, drifting from the cup. He keeps his voice light, though. Far be it from him to judge her, and it might help her nap this morning. Draco'd be relieved.

Narcissa takes the scone, albeit reluctantly. "One can try," she says, but there's a bit of a flush across her cheeks. She nibbles at the edge. "Are you gone today then?" Her blue eyes are warm, but she looks like she could break out in tears again at any moment. 

"I have to go in. I've been summoned." Harry hesitates. He knows he's been a buffer for her and Draco lately. Neither of them seem to be able to talk to one another, not in any depth at least. Narcissa's devastated with guilt and loss, and Draco's bloody furious with his father to the point that Harry's rather certain Draco can't even feel his own grief at times. "But I'll be back as soon as I can."

She pats his good arm. "We'll be all right."

They both know it's a lie, but there's nothing Harry can do. "I won't take long," he promises again and he walks back to the hall and picks his coat from the hook beside the entry hearth.

The Floos aren't too busy yet as Harry arrives at the Ministry. He manages to get through the wand check quickly, and up into the lift. He doesn't bother to check his watch. He's probably ten minutes late by now, but he hopes that Gawain will be charitably disposed.

When Viola sees him, she clucks and gestures to his arm. "That's not a good souvenir, Harry. You're supposed to have fun in New York, not get hexed by a bloody idiot."

Harry smiles, a bit pained. "Next time I'll just buy a t-shirt or a snowglobe. Promise."

"For fuck's sake come in, Harry, and stop wasting my assistant's time." Gawain bellows from the inner office, and Viola raises her eyebrows and nods toward the open door. 

Harry gives up any hope of Gawain being in a good mood. He walks in, his steps silent on the thick carpet. "Hi, sir. Sorry I'm late."

Gawain waves a hand at him, but he's scowling as he sets a file jacket down. "Sit." When Harry's settled himself in one of the chairs in front of Gawain's wide, heavy desk, Gawain asks, "How's the arm?"

Harry shrugs with his good shoulder. "It's all right. The Healers in New York think it'll be good as new soon, although I'll get some wicked scars out of it."

"Charazando did that?" Gawain's frown deepens. "What the fuck was Dolohov casting with, the Elder Wand?"

"No." Harry sighs. "That's still safe, obviously." He hasn't told anyone, not even Hermione and Ron, that he'd left the Elder Wand in Dumbledore's tomb. He's not about to let Gawain know. "Dolohov had his own fucking wand." Dolohov's hit is still a bit of a sore point with Harry. Charazando is supposed to be a minor spell, after all. "He also used an otherwise unknown spell, one that does internal damage." Harry leans back in the chair, trying not to wince. He doesn't want his boss to think he's exaggerating his injuries or playing a sympathy card.

"Have you been to St Mungos yet?" Gawain's eyes are sharp. "I know the New York Healers are good, but I want you seen by our people too."

Harry shakes his head. "Sorry. I was going to later this week." _After the funeral_ , he thinks to himself.

There's a long silence after that. Gawain looks out the window to the atrium below. "Yes," he says finally. "Make certain you do." He drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, and Harry can tell Gawain's furious with him. His heart sinks a bit, but he just takes a deep breath and settles himself. Whatever Gawain throws at him, Harry can take. He's done it before. More than once. Harry thinks that's part of why Gawain likes him, if he's honest. Gawain prefers people who don't cower. The Head Auror heaves an irritated sigh, then looks back over at Harry. "Dolohov's a dangerous bastard and no mistake. Saul's taking him into the cells over there, as you might've heard."

Hermione had mentioned it, when Harry'd rung her over the weekend to check in whilst Draco was sleeping one evening, and Harry wonders if Gawain's upset that the Unspeakables are keeping Dolohov under their guard. Still, he thinks it's a decent idea. Lucius Malfoy hadn't been attacked whilst in an Unspeakable holding cell. Harry draws in a slow breath, then says, "There have been a lot of surprises lately." When Gawain glares at him, his brows drawn together, Harry adds, "Sir."

For a moment, Gawain looks as if he wants to rip Harry's head off, but then he relaxes back into his chair. "You're right, of course. Between you and me, I'm just as glad it's Saul's job to keep Dolohov locked up safely." Gawain rubs his temples. "There've been far too many surprises in Auror custody recently, on both sides of the pond."

Harry shifts, coughing softly. "At least the Americans have had trouble as well."

"Yes, but it's our arses that Luxembourg are coming down on, for their envoy's death." Gawain looks over at Harry. "You worked with Charlotte Marquandt, didn't you?"

Harry hasn't even had time to think about Lotte. He can't believe she's gone. There'd been a time a year or so ago he'd even thought he'd fancied her, when he and Jake were in one of their off-again moments, Jake storming back off to New York after they'd fought, telling Harry they were definitely done. Lotte had taken him out for drinks. He'd kissed her afterwards, half-pissed, beneath a street lamp on Rue du Fossé, and he can still remember how soft and warm her lips had been. She'd pulled away, told him she wasn't willing to risk it, that she wasn't going to be his rebound shag when she was certain he'd go back to Jake in the end. She'd been right. They'd stayed friends though. Lotte was just that sort. 

"I did," Harry says finally. "She's--was great." A lump forms in his throat, tight and painful, and he looks away for a moment. He needs to get to Freddie, needs to talk to someone about all of this and soon. He'd cancelled his last appointment because of the raid in New York, and he'd not owled for a follow up yet. He has to do that when the funeral's over. Harry won't let himself fall apart. Not on Draco.

Gawain heaves another heavy sigh and looks away. He rests his elbow on the arm of his chair, presses his knuckles to his lips. He doesn't say anything, just sits silently. Harry waits, watching him. 

"You know," Gawain says finally, "I'd planned to suspend you when you returned for your blatant disregard of my orders regarding Sergeant Malfoy." 

Harry jerks his chin up, heart pounding. He hadn't really considered it, although Draco'd worried, late at night when they were lying in bed together, and he kicks himself for being so bloody trusting, so certain in his defiant insistence to Gawain that he was going to be open about his relationship with Draco. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"You'll be sorrier to hear that I can't," Gawain says, and he turns a grim frown on Harry. "We need you too much in the field. Also, Saul Croaker is going to take Malfoy on formally, and that will absolve you of professional misconduct. I believe he'll backdate it to the beginning of the New York mission." Gawain's mouth tightens. "As a favour for the Saviour of the Wizarding World." He looks unhappy. "You're bloody fucking lucky, Harry. They wouldn't have done something like that for me. They didn't, in fact." He leans forward, his elbows on his desk. "But Saul wants Malfoy that badly he's willing to overlook both of your defiances."

"What?" Harry's head is spinning, and he wishes his focus weren't so off with the time shifts and the potions. He can't quite believe his ears, and he feels dazed. He knew this might happen, but it feels unreal right now, and his first reaction is an angry kneejerk. "I mean, Draco's obviously not able to work right now due to family circumstances, sir, but he's still essential to Seven-Four-Alpha. And he's an Auror, not a sodding Unspeakable--"

Gawain stands abruptly, a bitten off swear on his lips. "Stop playing silly buggers, Harry. Like I've said, you're incredibly fortunate not to be sent home without pay to cool your heels for a few weeks, although I doubt it'd do bloody much in your case." He walks over to the window, looks out onto the atrium below, his hands in his pockets.

Harry bites the inside of his lip, sitting silently as Gawain continues. "You know damned well Malfoy can't be near Lestrange case, and the likelihood that will cross over to your team's doorstep is higher than I'd like, all things considered." He looks back at Harry. "And Saul wants to take him on as a full Legilimens. Pay for his training and everything. Going to make an official offer to him after the funeral."

"But Draco just made sergeant." Harry doesn't know why this matters, but it does. Draco'd been so proud of his exam and his promotion. It's Harry's sodding fault he can't stay on the Auror rolls, and that upsets Harry. He doesn't want to be the reason Draco's career derails. That's not what he wanted from any of this.

Gawain turns, facing back towards Harry. "Malfoy'll receive an equivalent rank in the Unspeakables, perhaps even better. I hear he's quite a natural as a Legilimens, and we're very scarce on those in Britain. Saul's champing at the bit."

"I don't want to lose him from the team." Harry knows he shouldn't object further, knows the decision has been made, knows that nothing he does will change that, but he really thinks Draco is the heart of Seven-Four-Alpha. They need him. "Can you put me in charge of another group? Let someone else take on Seven-Four-Alpha? Hart, perhaps? She's just made Inspector--"

"You'd do that?" Gawain shakes his head, surprised. "You'd give up your first special branch assignment for Draco Malfoy?" His gaze searches Harry's face. 

Harry nods. He doesn't even have to think about it. "Draco's worked far harder for it, sir. He deserves to be here. I've just been given what I have because I killed Voldemort." He snorts. "If a rebounding curse can be considered that."

"No matter, Harry," Gawain's expression is kinder now, the harshness softening, a gentleness back to his eyes. "There's nowt to be done about it. Althea's your sergeant now. And I need you all to come back into the office as soon as possible. I'll give your team time to settle back in from the extradition today, but we're dangerously low on trained Aurors as it is, and I'm fighting a war here, whether or not Kingsley and the Wizengamot want to see it as such." Harry blinks at the intensity in the Head Auror's voice. Gawain's barely speaking above a whisper, but his syllables are clipped and fierce. "Peasegood's gone. Bates and Wrightson are gone. The Unspeakables just lost Chang. Shah's having a bloody existential crisis because he thinks he'll be held responsible for the transport safety since he left the detail and survived."

"No. Not Shah." Harry shakes his head in protest. "He'd never go in with the wrong side."

"You and I know that," Gawain says, "but the timing looks bad, and let me tell you, the _Prophet_ 's already starting to push the connections. He had to go back to Azkaban because of fucking Rodolphus Lestrange at the last minute, and Chang was substituted." Gawain sighs. "Proudfoot's starting to make noises about disciplinary action, but I'm doing what I can to put him off. The Changs have his ear though." Gawain shakes his head. "Poor family. The mother's beside herself."

Harry suddenly realises that this is Cho's little brother they're speaking about, that he should send flowers, or something in sympathy. His heart clenches in his chest. They've all lost so much and for what? "It shouldn't be like this, Gawain. We shouldn't be sitting here with so many dead already. They weren't supposed to come back, those _bastards_." He doesn't know whom he blames, exactly, but a black wave of despair slides over him, almost physically pinning him to the chair for a moment. 

Gawain sits down again and runs a hand through his hair. "Agreed. But they are back, some of them at least, Lestrange first among them. We're the poor fools who have to mop up." He settles, looks at Harry. "At least your team captured Dolohov."

"When's the transport due?" Harry shivers involuntarily, his brain leaping back to the present. He's worried about his team, and he can tell from the set of his features that Gawain is as well. They're bringing him in today, Parkinson, Zabini, Whitaker. Even though Harry's grateful Hermione's taken point, it's hard for him not to be with Seven-Four-Alpha right now.

"They'll be sent off at ten local time, three in the afternoon here." Gawain glances down to a sheet on his desk. "Tom Graves is supervising the transfer personally."

"I'd like to be there when they arrive." Harry doesn't want to let his team come in with Dolohov alone. He knows Hermione has it covered, but he wants to at least show up to greet them on the other side. He hasn't mentioned it to Draco yet, for obvious reasons. He'll go back to the flat for lunch, then come in again.

Gawain nods. "I think that's a good idea. I'm set to meet Saul at half-two in his office. Why don't you join us at quarter til?"

Harry thinks this is a good sign. A peace offering of sorts. He could have dealt with suspension, but he doesn't want to draw any focus from Draco's grief right now either. "Are Luxembourg moving quickly?"

"Not sure." Gawain steeples his fingers. "Their people are supposed to be examining the Dementors, and they'll probably send more oversight." Gawain's face is grim. "As if they haven't been over our facilities with a fine-toothed comb already." 

"Hermione mentioned Barachiel Dee had been in hospital," Harry says cautiously.

Gawain's expression flattens, and Harry can't help but wonder what the story is behind Gawain's dislike of Zabini's grandfather. "He's perfectly fine." Gawain sounds bitter and exasperated. "The arrogant prat chatted up the mediwitches and then checked himself out the moment Irskine turned his back."

Despite the obvious tension, Harry can't help the chuckle that escapes him. At least someone is coming out of this hale and hearty, he thinks, and he can only imagine how Barachiel Dee had handled being confined to St Mungo's. Gawain's visibly not amused, although the corner of his mouth quirks after a few moments.

"Speaking of that family, I'd like to give Zabini a commendation." Gawain's face is strangely thoughtful, and Harry can't quite read his expression. "If you think you can put him forward."

"Of course." Harry leans forward, nodding as eagerly as he thinks is presentable. "Absolutely. Zabini was bloody brilliant with Dolohov." Harry's shoulder twinges as he sits back in his chair. He doesn't let it dampen his enthusiasm, but he does rub his forearm, trying to settle the nerve pain. "He's an incredible duellist, and he got the collar. He actually took him on directly."

"In that case, I'll need your report as soon as possible," Gawain says. "I've already read Granger's."

Harry resists the urge to swear. Of course Hermione's got her paperwork in already. He's late, as usual, but he thinks he has better cause right now as well. "I'll get a report in by the end of week, sir. Once we…" He hesitates, then says, "Well, I'll want to be there for Draco when his father's buried." He raises his chin, daring Gawain to challenge him.

"We've released the body, you know." A hush settles across the room. Gawain looks over at Harry. "Lucius Malfoy's I mean."

Harry takes a deep breath. "That's good. The funeral's been scheduled for tomorrow. At eleven." Andromeda had been ready to take the Ministry on today if Lucius hadn't been released. Harry's glad she won't have to, if he's honest. "St Barnabas in Wiltshire."

"I'll let people know." Gawain's silent for a breath, and then he says, "We had to take a tissue sample." Gawain presses his lips together; he doesn't look happy. "I asked Jones to make sure we had enough to analyse, just in case it's not him." He shrugs his shoulders. "The way this lot are popping up alive again, one can't be too careful. Although, under the circumstances, we're all but sure that's Lucius Malfoy lying in the morgue." At Harry's frown, Gawain adds, "We've looked at all the recording charms around the Portkey cabin, both from our end and the site in Brussels. It seems fairly obvious that Lestrange killed them all. With no evidence that Malfoy's body was switched out."

Harry hadn't even thought about the possibility of a body swap. He thinks for a moment. "I suppose it's good to be certain, under the circumstances. Parkinson can show Jones the tests she did for the last one."

Gawain nods, then leans back in his chair with a sigh. "Well. At least someone's burying Malfoy." Gawain's face is clouded.

"What do you mean?" Harry doesn't quite follow. 

"No one's claimed Marcus Wrightson's body." Gawain watches Harry's face. "Everyone else Peasegood took out has been claimed by family and interred, but he's still in the morgue." Something crosses his face, sadness, Harry thinks. "No one wanted him. No family. No friends. Shit of a way to die, wouldn't you think?" Gawain sighs. "Fucking Marcus. I thought he was one of ours. One of the good ones." He looks up at Harry. "Don't let yourself be a bloody idealist, Harry. It'll ruin you every time."

Harry shakes his head, not quite sure what to say. He wants to feel something, wants to know what to do, but he doesn't. It's all so strange. 

Gawain pushes his seat back, indicating that the interview is over. 'I'll see you at quarter to three in Saul's office, Inspector Potter."

"Thank you, sir," Harry ducks his head, aware that he's narrowly avoided disaster yet again. He lives his life under a lucky star, he thinks.

Gawain's voice follows him out. "Oh, and Harry? Don't be fucking late this time."

Harry winces and lets the door fall closed behind him.

***

Blaise follows Pansy and Althea into the heavily warded room tucked away in the back hallways of the Chambers Street Portkey terminal. It feels strange to be back here again with his luggage in hand. He doesn't want to leave New York, if he's honest. He feels like a heel, really. He should want to go back to London, want to check in on Draco. Circe, he's only firecalled once, on Sunday night, and he'd reached the guv then, who'd told him Draco was sleeping. Blaise isn't great with time zones. Potter'd looked tired and worn out, and Blaise is worried that the guv might be taking on a bit too much this early in however he and Draco are defining their relationship now.

It's not his place to say, though. Blaise knows that damned well. He'd learnt that lesson during Draco's relationship with Nicholas Lyndon, had Draco furious with him for questioning that bastard's motives. Not that the guv's anything like Lyndon, thank Circe. Still. Blaise doesn't want to upset Draco. Not with everything he's going through.

Granger's standing by the customs officials, waiting as they check her bag for charms. Weasley's gone ahead earlier this morning on a regular Portkey, Blaise knows. He's not an Auror; they couldn't have taken him with them. Blaise drops his satchel down beside Granger's. She looks over at him, her dark curls pulled back by a thin cream scarf wrapped tightly around her hairline. Whilst the rest of them are in full Auror dress uniform, even down to Pans, Granger's in a black silk top that drapes perfectly over her breasts and a pair of cream trousers that make her arse look brilliant. Bloody Weasley's a lucky man, Blaise thinks. "Boss," he says, with a cheeky grin that he doesn't quite feel. 

"Zabini," Granger says, and there are lines at the corner of her mouth. She looks tense and worried. Blaise doesn't blame her. Not after what had happened with Lucius Malfoy's transport. 

They'd talked about the danger yesterday afternoon, gathered together in the MACUSA incident room. Anything could happen. Despite London and Luxembourg's best efforts, Rodolphus Lestrange was still at large. Granger had nixed the use of a Portkey cabin. They'll be doing this the old-fashioned way, each of them bound to Dolohov, the official Portkey being delivered to them by Tom Graves himself. 

Blaise is still fucking terrified. He's doing his best to hide it, though, just as the others are. Pansy's been quiet all morning, unusually so, and it's starting to worry Blaise. When he'd asked her about, as they checked out of the hotel, she'd just shaken her head. Said she was fine. That's bollocks; Blaise knows it, and she knows he knows it. But there's no use in pushing her about it. Pansy'll talk when she wants to and not a moment before. Still, he rests a hand on her arm as she puts her bag beside his. 

"All right, old girl?" Blaise asks, and Pansy just gives him a faint smile. 

"Brill," she says, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and Blaise thinks she must be upset about Eustace and how that fucking wanker's going to hurt her family. He doesn't even want to think about how Daisy's going to face it all down. For all that Pansy whinges about her sister, she loves Daisy dearly. Blaise has always envied her that connection. He'd spent most of his childhood wishing he had a sibling. Even one older than him. 

Althea drops her bag down in front of the customs official. She looks severe in her dress blacks, her hair twisted tightly back at the nape of her neck, her red sergeant's bars polished as brightly as her boots. She watches as the MACUSA Aurors go over their luggage carefully before setting it into a crate that'll be Portkeyed separately once they're gone. Blaise nudges her shoulder. "It'll be fine," he says. 

"We'll see." Althea's mouth is a thin line. "After what happened last week I'm not certain I trust anyone."

"I'm not sure I ever did," Blaise says, his voice light. Sometimes he wonders how non-Slytherins survive. How they manage to go through their lives thinking people can be trusted, can be believed, can be counted on. 

Pansy glances over at them both, and she doesn't smile as she says, "It's never a good idea. Not really." Her fingers brush across the breast pocket of her Auror uniform, almost as if she's checking to make certain something's there. She catches Blaise watching her, and she drops her hand. The look she gives him is shuttered, yet even. 

Granger turns around. "So here's how this is going to go," she says. "In a few minutes, our friends here from customs are going to leave, and Antonin Dolohov is going to be brought in via that door." She nods towards a plain white door in the corner. "This room's warded. Heavily. There'll be MACUSA Unspeakables outside in all corridors leading to us, and Dolohov will be under an armed guard comprised of Unspeakables and Aurors. Everyone with me so far?"

They all nod, their faces sombre. 

"Right." Granger pulls four silver cords from her pocket and hands them around. "You'll each use your cord to bind yourself to Dolohov. Upper arm or thigh, I don't care which. The cords are charmed to form an unbreakable bond." She looks at them, her mouth tight, her expression grim. "Even after death. Ours, obviously. Or his, but if they come for him, I'm not so certain they'll want Dolohov dead this time. Still, our objective is to protect the prisoner at all costs. Even at a danger to our lives. Am I clear?"

"Utterly," Althea says. 

Pansy draws in a quick, soft breath beside Blaise. "The Unspeakables are taking the threat level rather seriously, I see." Her voice is light, but Blaise can hear the slight tremble beneath it. So can Althea, evidently. She places a hand on Pansy's shoulder and squeezes lightly. Blaise can feel Pansy relax at Althea's touch. Pansy gives Althea a small smile, and it's more sincere than Blaise expects it to be. Curious.

"We are." Granger lets her own silver cord slide from one hand to another, a thin, shimmering serpent of magic against her skin. "None of us want a replay of Lucius Malfoy's transfer. I want all of you home safely, and Dolohov in our custody. We'll be keeping him in the Department of Mysteries, at least for now. Luxembourg's making noises about taking him themselves."

Blaise thinks that's wise. The Department of Mysteries is the only place those bastards haven't yet managed to infiltrate. Merlin fucking help them if they do, but Blaise doesn't want to think about that. Ever.

There's a movement at the door, and they all look towards it, bodies tense, their Auror senses on high alert. Even Pansy's hand goes to her wand hilt, that training they'd had in their first few months as Aurors kicking in even for a self-professed lab rat like her. 

Jake walks in, and a ripple of relief goes around the room, even from the customs officials. He nods towards the MACUSA Auror in charge. "Everything set, Holborn?"

"Close enough," Holborn says, and he's watching the customs officials tag Blaise's bag and set it aside. "Is the prisoner on his way?"

"Five minutes, give or take." Jake looks damned good in his flat-front khakis and his navy jacket, open at the front. He's wearing a blue shirt with white pinstripes, and Blaise wants to sink down to his knees in front of Jake and mouth his prick through the twill of his trousers. A roil of pure lust goes through Blaise, sharp and hot, and Jake's head turns towards him almost immediately, as if he can feel it radiating from Blaise's taut body. 

He probably can. 

Fuck but they'd spent most of the weekend in bed, and Blaise feels guilty about that, about the waves of pleasure he'd ridden whilst his best friend was at home, grieving the death of his father. But those two days were all that Blaise was going to have, weren't they? And he wasn't willing to give them up in some mad solidarity for Draco's loss. He couldn't. He wouldn't. 

So he'd wrapped his body around Jake Durant's, and taken Jake's thick, long prick into him over and over and over again, stretching his arse wide, blocking everything out but Jake's mouth and his hands and his cock, refusing to think about the outside world. 

Blaise hadn't bothered with clothes all weekend. He didn't think Jake had minded. They'd fucked until they were both spent and exhausted, and the room stank of sweat and spunk, and then Jake would roll Blaise over again and kiss him, pressing him into the mattress, their bodies sliding slickly together, both of them almost insatiable for the other. 

To be honest, Blaise has never been fucked like that before. Somehow, he doesn't think he ever will be again. 

He can feel his body responding to Jake, can feel the way he wants so desperately to walk up to Jake, to press his body against his, to feel the warm solidity of Jake beneath him. He craves it. Badly. 

Blaise looks away. Takes a deep breath. Tries to focus on anyone--anything--else. It doesn't work. He's so fucking aware of every movement Jake makes, of the way Jake pushes his hair back from his forehead, of the soft murmur of Jake's voice as he greets Granger first, then Pansy and Althea. Blaise stares down at his feet, tries to still the quiet thud of his heart. 

Like that's bloody well going to happen. 

"Hey," Jake says from beside him, and Blaise glances up, doing his best to look as if he doesn't give a fuck that Jake's a foot away from him, hands in his pockets, seersucker jacket pushed up at the sides. 

What Blaise wouldn't do for a pair of sunglasses right now. Anything to hide behind, to keep Jake Durant at an arm's length. He exhales, a soft, slow puff of breath that parts his lips, and Blaise catches the way Jake's eyes dip down. Pansy's watching Blaise, and there's a faint furrow of worry between her perfectly groomed brows. Blaise looks away, but he also doesn't miss Althea's quick, knowing glance. 

"Got a moment?" Jake asks Blaise, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. Circe, they're so fucking blue, Blaise thinks, but he just shrugs. 

"Can't go anywhere without being attached to a fucking Death Eater," Blaise says, "so I suppose I might."

Blaise can feel Granger's curious gaze on him as he lets Jake lead him a few feet away from the others. It's not much privacy, but it's not as if they've one last chance at an empty room, yeah?

Jake's back is to the others; Blaise can see them looking over Jake's shoulder--even Granger. He feels his face warm. "So," Jake says, and then he stops, an uncertain expression crossing his face. 

"This weekend?" Blaise gives Jake a small smile, keeping his voice low. "Pretty good."

"Yeah." And Blaise gets a flash of something warm and soft from Jake, a quick image of himself spread out across the hotel bed, sweaty and sated. "It was decent, I'd say." 

Blaise feels a bit flustered. He tries to push it away, but he thinks Jake can sense it anyway. Merlin, but Blaise needs to work on his Occlumens. 

_Might be a good idea_ flits through his head, so quickly that Blaise isn't quite certain at first it's not his own thoughts. 

"Stop that." Blaise frowns at Jake. "No Legilimency without explicit consent, remember?"

Jake chuckles, and it's a warm, low sound that goes straight to Blaise's prick. "Sweetheart," he says with a faint drawl, "you projected that loud and clear."

Blaise sees Pansy's eyebrow go up a bit further. "Circe, Jake." He hesitates, then says, "So we're saying goodbye. How terribly dull of us."

"Something like that." Jake pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, rocks forward on the balls of his feet. For a mad moment, Blaise thinks that Jake might actually kiss him. Right here in front of everyone. He's disappointed when Jake doesn't. 

Instead Blaise shifts, folds his arms over his chest. His Auror jacket pulls tight across his shoulders. Blaise knows it's a good look, the way it makes him look broad in the chest, lean in the hips. "We had fun."

"A bit." Jake rubs at his jaw. He hasn't shaved this morning; there's a bit of stubbly shadow that Blaise wants to press his face against, wants to feel scrape across his cheek. "I'd do it again."

"Would you?" Blaise smiles faintly. _Of course you would, you wanker,_ he lets himself think, and he's rewarded with a soft laugh and a shake of Jake's head.

 _I think I might miss you,_ Jake whispers in Blaise's mind. _Well. That brilliant arse of yours, at least._

"You're incorrigible," Blaise murmurs, but he's watching Jake's face. For a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of regret, and then it's gone, and Jake's just looking at him, the way every other one of Blaise's ridiculously stupid flings has. Except not quite. There's something a bit held back about Jake Durant. As if he's trying to keep Blaise at a distance and failing. Blaise steps closer, reaches up to flick a piece of nonexistent lint from Jake's shoulder. "If you find yourself in London," Blaise says, his eyes fixed on Jake's face, "look me up."

Jake's smile is slow and easy. "I might just do that, Constable Zabini," he says, and Blaise's stomach twists at the heat in Jake's gaze. He almost forgets they're not alone, almost reaches up to touch Jake's cheek, to smooth his thumb along the curve of Jake's bottom lip.

Blaise catches himself in time. 

The door opens again, and even Jake's head turns. A half-dozen Aurors, give or take, come through the door, Espinoza and Martine amongst them. In their midst is Antonin Dolohov, wrapped in shackles, hands clasped in front of him, a thick metal gag hiding his mouth, the woven leather straps disappearing into his lank, filthy hair. He's in the bright orange robe of the MACUSA prison system, the American phoenix printed across the back in black ink. The customs officials slip out behind them, giving Dolohov uneasy looks as they do.

A frisson of fear goes through Blaise at the sight of the man. Dolohov's eyes are sharp and bright and dark, his gaze flitting around the room. Blaise knows Dolohov can't cast wandlessly here, not with the myriad magical dampeners on the shackles and the gag. Even Blaise can feel the strength of the charms, and he's halfway across the room from Dolohov. Still, he can't help holding himself a little tighter, making certain his wand's in easy reach, the holster at his hip unsnapped. If Blaise is honest, he doesn't trust anyone in this room outside of Pansy, and even she could be corrupted. Any of them could. Blaise had lived through the war, after all. He's seen what people are capable of, what they can be forced to do. He wraps the thin silver cord Granger'd given him earlier around one finger, feeling the cool slickness of the metal against his skin. 

"Ready?" Martine asks Granger. "Graves is coming with the Portkey, but not until you're all in place."

Granger nods and motions towards what's left of Seven-Four-Alpha. They draw close; Blaise hates to leave the comfort of Jake's side, but he strides towards Granger with only the slightest backward glance at Jake. The MACUSA Aurors wait until Seven-Four-Alpha is even with them, and then they draw back in a smooth, fluid movement, their own silver cords sliding off Dolohov's limbs, making space for Blaise and Pansy to move behind the bastard. 

Dolohov's elbow goes out, but Blaise already has his wand in his hand, the tip pressed against Dolohov's temple. "Give me one reason," Blaise says quietly into Dolohov's ear. "Because I'm Slytherin, old man, and I haven't the qualms of a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw about taking your fucking arse down. Harder this time." He feels Dolohov relax, Dolohov's elbow going back to his side. "Smart."

The look Dolohov gives him is scathing, vicious, but Blaise tells himself he doesn't care as he binds his left arm to Dolohov's right. Pansy's taking Dolohov's thigh--probably to torment the fucker, Blaise thinks, since it presses her body tightly against Dolohov's. 

"Hi," Pansy says to Dolohov with a tight, thin smile. "Cosy, are we?"

Dolohov makes a noise behind his gag, but it's unintelligible. 

"No toying with the prey, Parkinson," Granger says, attaching herself to Dolohov's other arm. "It's not done."

"Says you." Pansy gives Granger a bright smile, and Althea snorts from Dolohov's other side. Blaise is fairly certain he hears an affectionate _slag_ in the way Althea clears her throat afterwards, and Pansy just laughs, wrinkling her nose Althea's way. 

Granger glances over at Jake. "I wish you'd finished looking at that case file you were working on for us," she says, a bit wistfully.

"I don't know," Jake says, and his gaze finds Blaise. "I might need a weekend or two in London coming up."

Blaise just looks away from him, a fluttery warmth twisting through his stomach. He's certain Jake's only flirting, only saying things he thinks Blaise might want to hear. Still, Blaise wants to think about a dirty weekend in his flat, wants to imagine Jake Durant bending him over the edge of his sofa and fucking Blaise senseless. 

It seems like an eternity before Tom Graves walks into the room. Blaise knows it has to be less than a minute. His whole body feels as if it's on high alert; the heat from Dolohov's arm seeps through the thin wool of Blaise's summer dress uniform. Everyone in the room is tense, worried when the door opens one last time. Hands go to wands, then relax when it's clear that the latest intruder's the Director of Magical Security. 

"Stand down," Graves says, and Blaise wishes he could hear a tinge of amusement in Graves' voice. He doesn't. None of this is funny. Not after last week. "Durant, help me with this. It's keyed to both of us."

Graves holds a small box in his thick hands, highly polished and black, the MACUSA symbol engraved in silver on its top. Jake moves forward, his wand in his hand, and together he and Graves unward the box, the spells dissipating in a soft puff of bright red sparks. Slowly Jake opens the top, pulls out a small obsidian disk. He flips it over, examining it, frowning down at the slick, shiny stone. 

"It's good," Jake says finally, and Graves nods, not a single hair of his perfectly coiffed head moving.

"Antonin Ioannovich Dolohov," Graves says, looking over at Seven-Four-Alpha and their prisoner, "you are hereby transferred from the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the Magical Congress of the United States of America to that of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the Ministry of Magic of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Unspeakable Hermione Granger and her team will transport you to a holding facility of their choosing, and as Director of Magical Security for MACUSA, I am relinquishing and waiving all rights to a trial of said prisoner on American soil pursuant to the Magical Extradition Order of 1931."

Granger's shoulders straighten. "And, as senior representative of the Ministry of Magic, I take on responsibility for the prisoner as outlined in the MEO of 1931," she says, and there's a shiver of magic that goes through the room. Blaise feels it spark along his spine, feels Dolohov tense next to him. 

Graves huffs out a sigh. "Well, the fucker's yours now." He doesn't sound happy about it, Blaise thinks, but Jake's handing Granger the smooth, flat Portkey disc. 

"You've got about thirty seconds," Jake tells her. He's looking at Blaise, though. 

The Aurors around them have their wands out, watching them all. Blaise is glad that Draco's not here to see them, not here to realise that this level of protection's only in place because of his father's death. 

Blaise rocks back slightly on his heels, his body thrumming with anxiety. Fear. He doesn't want to go back, he thinks again, and his gaze settles back on Jake. He wonders if he'll see him again or if this was just one brilliant weekend of shagging and cock-sucking. Blaise doesn't know why that thought makes him itchy and unhappy, but it does. He tries to push it back down, tries to keep it hidden from Jake. 

He's not certain he manages. 

And then the Portkey clicks in Granger's hand and starts to spin, lifting up over her palm. 

The last thing Blaise sees before the Portkey pulls him away is Jake's face, tight and tense and terrible, those bright blue eyes fixed on Blaise. 

Blaise spins into the darkness, his fingers digging tightly into Antonin Dolohov's forearm.

A moment later they land with a thump in the middle of the Department of Mysteries. 

"Welcome home," the guv says, his voice warm and even, and he's there, between Robards and Croaker.

Fucking hell but Blaise has never been so glad to see Harry Potter in his life.

***

Draco hasn't been inside the Manor for weeks. Not since his mother moved out.

It feels odd to be standing in the foyer again, this warm Wednesday morning in late July, the silence of the house almost an oppressive weight around him. He'd come here first, before his mother and Harry, who'd offered to wait for Narcissa as she finished dressing for the funeral.

Crying, more likely. And that's what's rubbing Draco raw. His mother's constant tears, his feeling as if he's suffocating in her grief, allowed to do nothing but support her, be the good son. When all he wants is to slam his fist into a wall, to scream, to destroy everything around him in a flurry of vicious, violent magic.

And when his mother had drifted down the hallway in tears again, her dressing gown wrapped tight around her, her misery had scraped rawly across Draco's nerves, pushing at the chinks of his Occlumens, overwhelming his mind until Draco felt abraded by his mother's sorrow, every bit of him jangling and jittering with the waves of unfiltered emotion rolling from Narcissa in waves, somehow pushing past the meagre shields Draco's managed to keep in place the past week. 

Draco hadn't been able to bear staying in the flat one more moment. Thank Circe, Harry'd pushed him towards the Floo before Draco'd started yet another fracas with his mother. Or with Harry. Draco can't seem to help himself this morning. He feels wound up. Angry. Furious with his father for putting them all in this position, even if he knows that's ridiculous, knows that his father didn't plan to be killed, but Draco doesn't care. If Lucius hadn't found himself caught up in all this bollocks again, if he hadn't been so desperate to be relevant, to have some modicum of power once more...fuck. Draco hates his father for what his idiotic choices have forced his mother to deal with. For what they've forced _him_ to face. 

His feet carry him up the staircase. Draco doesn't quite know what he's doing. Where he's going. Why he's walking through these hallways again, his fingers trailing along the curve of the bannister. Sunlight filters through the arched, lead-paned windows on the landing, gothic remnants of his family's proud past, destroyed by his father's arrogance. 

The last time he climbed these steps, Harry was with him, strong and silent, standing back whilst Draco confronted his father. Took him into custody. 

Draco's polished black brogues sink into the thick, purple carpet of the hall. He'd run down this hall as a child, flown his first broom down it when he was four, white-blond hair tumbling into his face, his bare feet barely brushing the floor, his father laughing at the end of the corridor, telling Narcissa that Draco was a bloody natural on a broom whilst she fretted beside him and sent a house elf over to catch Draco before he flew down the staircase.

If Draco closes his eyes he can almost hear his father's voice. 

He ends up in his father's sitting room with its tall, paned windows that fill the room with morning light, casting shadows across the comfortable leather chairs and sofa his father favoured, the heavy Jacobean bookcases that line one end of the room, sunlight reflecting off their leaded glass doors and carved dark wood. 

Across the arm his father's favourite chair is a folded copy of the _Prophet_ , yellowing already in the sun. Draco sits down, feels the leather give beneath his thighs. He glances at the _Prophet_ ; it's dated the ninth of June. The day he brought his father into custody. Draco pushes it away, lets the _Prophet_ fall to the floor in a rustle of newsprint. Six weeks tomorrow it will have been since that morning he'd stood in front of his father. Defied him. Imploded his family as he once knew it. 

Draco wonders if he would have made the same decision, had he known what today would bring, had he known he'd be sat here in his best black wool suit and green tie, silver serpent cufflinks gleaming at his wrists. He looks around him, feels the presence of his father imbued throughout this room. This had been Lucius's refuge. His sanctuary. Draco knows his parents' old bedroom lies through the half-open door on the long wall opposite the bookcases; his mother's sitting room flanks it on the other side. Narcissa had moved out of the bedroom a few years after the war. She claimed it was for sleeping purposes, but Draco's not a fool. He knows how strained his parents' marriage had become in the past half-decade. To be honest, he suspects that's part of his mother's intense roil of grief. Guilt and anger and loss all rolled into one turbulent package. 

Circe, but his family's fucked up, Draco thinks. He sinks back into the chair, breathes in the lingering scent of leather and something curiously spicy, like cloves and musk. It reminds him of his father. Of sitting here with Lucius during school hols, taking breakfast with his father in the mornings, Draco still clad in his pyjama bottoms and a Quidditch t-shirt, his father dressed impeccably in a suit, his wizarding over-robe waiting on a hook nearby for whatever jaunt Lucius planned to take into London that day. 

There's a movement from beneath the sofa, and Draco frowns until a small russet-and-white fur face peers up at him, a bit blearily. Cronus, Draco realises, and it's only then he wonders who's been looking after his father's favoured Crups. The elves, Draco supposes, since Chronos's arse looks a bit plumper than it had the last time Draco'd seen him. He vaguely remembers his mother telling him when she moved in that Trissie would be taking care of the beasts. Draco'd been too lost in Harry at the time to care. 

Cronus waddles out, followed by Coeus and Crius. Draco expects the Crups to lunge for him, like usual, barking, teeth bared, but they just sit silently, looking up at him, all of them a bit lost and uncertain. 

What must the poor bastards be thinking, Draco wonders. His father had been ripped from them so suddenly, and Lucius had been the world to those damned Crups. Cronus quirks his head, looking up at Draco, one of his folded ears flipped up. Draco reaches out and smoothes it back down, as quickly as he can, expecting a sharp nip in return. Instead, Cronus just whines a little, his forked tail thumping against the floor. Draco's father had never bothered with the law that said Crups' tails had to be trimmed down to one at birth to keep Muggles from noticing them. Lucius had found that particular Ministry regulation cruel. Draco wants to laugh at that thought, but in absurdity rather than amusement. His father could watch the Dark Lord kill a Muggle in cold blood but he balked at the idea of harming his pup. Merlin. 

"He's not coming back," Draco says to Cronus, and the Crup just frowns up at him. "I can't--" Draco breaks off as Cronus jumps up, landing in Draco's lap. For a moment Draco calculates how fast he can get to his wand to cast a sleeping charm, but Cronus just turns around twice, then settles himself into the chair between Draco and the leather arm, putting his head down on his paws with a heavy sigh. 

Draco stills in surprise. Crius and Coeus look up at their brother, then with snuffly huffs, drop down beside Draco's feet, curling up the way they had when Lucius sat in this chair. 

"Oh," Draco murmurs. His hand settles on Cronus' back, and the Crup looks up at him, his eyes wide and a bit sad. Draco thinks the Crups must know then, must somehow understand what's happened, must realise their master's never coming back. Cronus pushes his head beneath Draco's hand and whines a bit more. Draco pets him, scratches him behind his ears the way he remembers his father doing. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and a deep ache opens up inside of him, almost overwhelming in its intensity. 

He sits silently--for how long, Draco hasn't a clue. The quiet of the room is strangely comforting, as is the warmth of the Crup beside him. Draco can almost believe he's a boy again, just home from Hogwarts, waiting for his father to stride into the room and ask him how his term had been as Lucius tossed his robe over the arm of the sofa. 

And Draco misses that Lucius. The father who had always listened to him in those early days of school, who had taken his side without question, who had even indulged him in his angry complaints about how bloody irritating Potter was. Draco smiles faintly at that, and a bit bitterly if he's honest. He can't help but wonder if his father had suspected then that his son might be a poof. Draco had been so gone for Harry even back then. He just hadn't recognised it for the pash it was. Not really. 

What would it have been like for Harry if Lucius had lived? Draco can't imagine it would have been all happy families. Not with the two of them across the Christmas table. But his father would have been in Azkaban. At least for a while, and perhaps that might have made it easier for Harry. 

Or not. Draco knows what'll be said if they go public with their relationship. He's not a fool. The Saviour of the Wizarding World oughtn't be seen on the arm of a known Death Eater. But Harry's never been one to care what the public thinks, and it's one of the ridiculous quirks Draco loves about him. 

And Draco does love Harry. Madly. It's a strange sensation, these feelings that twist up inside of him whenever he thinks of Harry. Draco's not used to it, not entirely comfortable with the way his breath catches when he looks over at Harry, when he catches Harry unawares, his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he reads a case file, or when he watches Harry talking to his mother, gently drawing her out of her cocoon of sadness, making Narcissa smile, even a little. 

His mother's accepted Harry. Even adjusted to Harry sleeping in Draco's bed the past week, to Harry wandering out into the kitchen for breakfast, hair mussed and shirtless, in desperate need of a strong cup of tea. Draco knows she doesn't entirely understand, not when so obviously faced with evidence of her son's bent nature, but she's trying. And Harry's good with her. Careful. Polite. Always kind, more so than Draco has been, he thinks. 

Draco doesn't know what he'd do without Harry. How he could face today. He dreads it. Doesn't want to face putting his father into the ground. There'd been part of him that had wondered if it was even his father in the morgue drawer. How many of those bastard friends of his father's had faked their own death, after all. But he knows deep down inside that his father's gone. Lucius wouldn't hurt Narcissa like this. Draco's bloody well certain of that. 

The door to the sitting room swings open, and Harry walks in. "Hey," Harry says, and Draco just looks at him. Harry's in a black suit, perfectly tailored, with a grey silk tie, his sling charmed to match the black of his suit today. He looks lovely with his dark hair artfully mussed and his face clean-shaven. How inappropriate is it, Draco wonders, to want to fuck your boyfriend just before your father's funeral? 

Harry walks in, looks around. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of the Crups sprawled around Draco. "Part of your inheritance?" he asks lightly, and the ludicrousness of it all makes Draco smile, just a bit. 

"They miss Father." Draco strokes a finger along the back of Cronus's ear. "I'm waiting for them to remember they loathe me."

"Give them time." Harry sits on the arm of the chair and looks down at Draco. "Your mum's with McIntyre downstairs. They'll need you soon."

Draco just nods. He knows he'll have to go down, knows he'll have to make it through the next few hours. The service. The lunch his aunt is hosting at her house. He wonders idly if the Manor elves are in the kitchen, or if they're cooking for Andromeda. 

Harry smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead. "You can do this," he says quietly. "You know that."

"I'll be fine." Draco turns his head, brushes his mouth across Harry's knuckles. "Thank you for giving me some time, though."

"Your mum's all right." Harry's hand cups Draco's cheek. "I think she'll make it through the service at least." He hesitates, then says, "She wants me to sit with you both."

Draco thinks he should be surprised, but he's not. "That's good of her." He knows what that means, knows that his mother is already offering Harry a place in their family. If he wants it. Draco's chest constricts a bit. "Will you?" He doesn't look at Harry as he asks. He strokes Cronus' ear instead. 

Harry doesn't say anything at first, and Draco's heart thuds loudly. He's certain Harry can hear it. And then Harry reaches for Draco's hand, curls his fingers around Draco's. "Would you like me to?"

All Draco can do is nod.

"Then I will." Harry's voice is soft. His thumb traces a small circle on the back of Draco's hand. "We should go down though. Your mum's already fretting."

Draco lets Harry pull him out of the chair, Vanish away the Crup hairs that cling to his suit. Cronus looks disgruntled, and Draco smoothes his ears back. "I'll come back," he promises, and Cronus' tails thump against the leather of the chair. Draco means it. He doesn't know what to do with his father's Crups, but he knows he can't leave them here in this bloody house with just the house elves for company. 

Harry leads Draco downstairs. His mother and McIntyre are in the foyer, along with Andromeda and Teddy, all of them dressed in shades of grey and black. Even Teddy's hair is a subdued slate blue today. They look up as Draco and Harry take the turn from the landing, their hands still interlaced. Draco knows his mother and Andromeda have both noticed. Even McIntyre's eyebrow goes up, but he doesn't say anything. 

"There you are, darling," his mother says. She's in an elegant dark grey wrap dress made of raw silk. It looks beautiful on her, and she's wearing her engagement and wedding rings again, Draco notices. She hasn't had those on in years. Death brings out odd things in people, he thinks, as his mother holds her hand out to him. "James was just telling us how the order of service will go."

McIntyre clears his throat. "Yes, well, the vicar will be leading, of course. It's a simplified graveside service, per your request. However…." The funeral director trails off, looking a bit uncertain.

"What?" Draco looks between McIntyre and his mother. 

"It's not just family that'll be attending," his aunt says, her voice quiet. "James says that some others have gathered."

"Quite unusual," McIntyre says, with a worried glance Draco's way. "But given the individuals in question…" He chews on his bottom lip. "Well. You'll see, Sergeant Malfoy."

With a frown at Harry, Draco follows McIntyre to the wide entry Floo. St Barnabas has been the Malfoy family parish for as long as there've been Malfoys in Wiltshire, even if in recent years the family's been strictly Easter and Christmas attendees. Or less, in Draco's case. He hasn't stepped foot in St Barnabas since the Dark Lord took over the Manor. It feels odd but strange to land in the Floo back behind the choir stalls now. 

The stone church is empty and silent. Draco waits for his mother to come out after him, followed by Harry, then Andromeda and Teddy. Draco catches Teddy as he stumbles, keeping his cousin from smashing his nose on one of the saint's statues in the back corridor. Teddy gives him a small smile; Draco just lets his hand drop. 

"Used to do that myself when I was small," Draco says. "Nearly brained myself on the Apostle Paul over there." Draco nods towards the statue of a serious, bearded man across from the Floo, raised up just enough so that his bare toe was even with an eight-year-old's temple. 

"Thanks," Teddy says. He looks up at Draco, almost as if he's assessing him, and then he slides his hand in Draco's, pulling Draco after the others. Teddy's palm is warm and a little bit sticky, but something about the feel of it against Draco's skin is right, and when both Andromeda and Harry smile at him, Draco's cheeks grow warm. 

McIntyre leads them through the quiet nave, and into the foyer beyond. The arched wooden doors are heavy; their iron hinges creak when McIntyre pushes them open, letting the bright summer sunlight flood over the cool shadows of the foyer. Draco blinks as he steps out into the warmth of the July morning. It's nearly Harry's birthday, Draco realises. A week and a half or so to go. It's a curious thought to have as he walks down the stone steps, his brogues hitting the crushed gravel of the circular path leading towards the graveyard. Draco glances back at Harry, who's helping his mother down the steps, holding one hand for her as she daintily makes her way down the worn steps, her skirt caught up with her other hand. The sun glints in her golden hair, and his mother's beautiful, Draco thinks as she looks up at him, giving him a small, sad smile. 

Draco doesn't know what to expect as he follows McIntyre and his aunt down the path towards the Malfoy crypt, large and grey-white against the other half-sagging headstones around it. But it's not the people gathered around his father's closed casket, a simple spray of lilies on top of the polished walnut. Blaise and Pansy and Althea are there, all in their Auror dress uniforms, standing tall and square-shouldered beside the path. Behind them are Olivia Zabini and Barachiel Dee, Terry and Camilla Parkinson, then Mille and Hannah and Greg and Theo, even Gawain Robards, and a row of Unspeakables in uniform, as well as Granger and Weasley, the latter's hair shining ginger and bright in the sunlight. 

And then Harry pulls Teddy back and Blaise and Pansy are beside Draco, holding him, Pansy whispering _I'm so sorry, darling_ in his ear. Draco clings to her, breathing in the smell of roses against her skin, feeling the press of Blaise's hand against his back. He's missed them these past few days. Badly. As much as Draco loves Harry, he needs his friends too right now. 

He steps back when he hears a deep voice say, "Sergeant Malfoy."

Kingsley Shacklebolt's standing beside Draco, with Gawain Robards and Bertie Aubrey flanking each side. They look solemn, Robards and Bertie in full dress uniform as well, and Shacklebolt extends his hand to Draco. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says. "Officially and on a personal level as well. The death of a parent is always difficult." Draco can tell he's sincere. 

"Thank you, sir," Draco says, and he means it as well. He's a bit stunned that the Minister of Magic's shown up at his father's burial. That any of them have, to be honest. He looks back behind Robards and Bertie, and he sees a handful of other Aurors. Shah. Viola. Dawlish even. Aurors from his past assignments. Men and women he's worked with for years. They're here, and Draco knows they've not the slightest bit of respect for his father. 

And then Bertie's pulling Draco into a one-armed embrace and he says in Draco's ear, "They've all come for you, you know that, lad."

Draco hadn't, but he realises Bertie must be right. Aurors and Unspeakables alike dip their heads as Draco makes his way down the line, taking their quiet murmurs of sympathy in, one after another, his mother behind him.

"Whatever you need, Malfoy," Weasley says, holding out his hand, and Draco hesitates only briefly before taking it. He can feel Harry watching from beside McIntyre, and Draco can't say anything, can only nod as Weasley releases his hand. "If there's anything at all…" Weasley falls silent for a moment, and then he says, a bit gruffly, "I know what it's like to lose someone in your family. So yeah. Anything." Weasley looks away, towards his wife. Granger puts a hand on his shoulder, and he smiles faintly at her. 

And then Draco's being pulled away by one of McIntyre's helpers, being led down to the gaping hole that's the entrance to his family crypt. His father's casket sits in front of it, and there are seats for Draco and his mother and Andromeda and Teddy. Harry stands behind Draco, his hand on Draco's shoulder, and Draco knows what this means, their colleagues watching Harry with him, touching him like this, like he's more than Draco's SIO. 

Harry doesn't seem to give a damn. 

The vicar steps forward, a small, round woman with a pretty face and a dark bob. "Lord," she says quietly, "thou hast been our refuge, from one generation to another."

Harry's fingers tighten on Draco's shoulder, and Draco feels a warmth go through him. He stares straight ahead at the smooth, shining wood of his father's simple casket, letting the vicar's words fade into the background, a quiet hum of Anglican platitudes meant more for his mother than himself. He sits ramrod straight, memories of the last Malfoy funeral he'd attended flitting through his mind, of Grandfather Abraxas, so pale and stern in his casket, and the church that had been filled to overflowing with the wizarding elite, of his father standing beside him, his hand on Draco's shoulder much as Harry's is now. Draco had never seen his father express the slightest bit of emotion at Grandfather Abraxas' death. Draco can't help but wonder if Lucius had been glad to see his own father go, if the Malfoy line was destined to be filled with fathers and sons who despised one another. 

Except Draco had never hated his father entirely. He still doesn't. He can't. 

He watches as the vicar sprinkles dirt on his father's casket, watches as his mother stands and does the same before turning to Draco expectantly. 

Draco doesn't want to. And yet he finds himself standing, walking over to scoop a small handful of dirt from the pile beside the casket. He lets it fall from his fingers, hears it striking the wood, spattering against the lilies. He doesn't feel as if he's in his body, doesn't feel as if he knows what he's doing. Everything's so distant. So empty. 

Somehow he sits back down. Catches Harry's hand with his own dirt-streaked fingers and he holds on, tightly, waiting for it all to end. 

He won't fall apart. Not here. Not now.

Not ever, if he can help it. 

Draco holds fast to that small curl of anger deep down inside of him. At his father. At the world. He clings to it. Tightly, as if losing that spark of fury will spin him out of control, bring the whole world crashing down on him. 

In front of him the engraved plaque on his father's casket gleams bright in the sunlight. _Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. 6 Aug 1954 - 13 Jul 2006._

"That we," the vicar is saying, "with all those that are departed in the true faith of thy holy Name, may have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul, in thy eternal and everlasting glory…"

Bollocks, Draco thinks. Complete and utter bollocks, and he wants to throw himself to his feet, to shout and scream and rage against all of this idiocy, at the idea that his father might deserve any bliss, any peace at all, in any sodding afterlife that might or might not exist. 

He can't though. He can't embarrass his mother like that. He won't. 

And so he sits silent and angry, his whole body tense and tight as the vicar ends her prayer, steps back away from the casket. 

McIntyre's men move forward, levitating the casket and its spray of lilies up, moving it slowly towards the crypt. Draco can't watch. Can't let himself look at what's left of his father being guided into its final resting place. 

That's not Lucius Malfoy, Draco wants to say. _My father was alive. Vicious. Bright. Sharp. Not silent. Dead. Gone._ His chest tightens. His shoulders shake as he stands along with the rest of his family, Harry by his side. 

Draco refuses to look back at that dark, gaping hole in the carved stone crypt.

He won't let himself cry.

***

Thursday morning comes too soon for Althea. She feels as if she'd barely slept before it'd been time to wake again; her nerves hadn't let her settle and she's still back on New York time. She supposes it's also the stress of the Dolohov transport, not to mention the funeral of Lucius Malfoy stirring up emotions that she'd thought had been well-buried for years. Althea knows all too well what it's like to lose a parent, especially in such a violent and unexpected way, and she feels Malfoy's loss intensely, even given who his father was. A parent is still a parent, and Althea misses her own mother every day. She'd also gone to New York petrified she might have to come back to Mitchell having drunk himself into a stupor and done something rash. Or worse.

The first thing she'd done when she'd got home was to go see her father, to make certain with her own eyes that he's all right. Mitchell had thought her half-mad when she'd walked into his room at the halfway house, but she'd needed to put her arms around him, to lean her head on his shoulder, to let him know she loved him. Needed him. Her father had just let her cry on him, had just stroked her hair and told her softly he'd be okay. He promised he wouldn't leave her, promised he wouldn't make her go through life alone. And Althea had wept in her father's arms, letting herself remember how much she misses her mother, admitting to him how empty she is.

Really, it's everything Althea hasn't let herself feel for weeks. Being back in London means thinking about Marcus Wrightson again, thinking about the future and what might happen to all of them. She feels so bloody lost if she thinks about it too much, as much as she's so glad to be on Seven-Four-Alpha, to have some sort of anchor right now.

Now she's walking back through the bullpen with a paper cup of tea in her hand, wondering if the past weeks in New York were a dream. They certainly feel like it. She greets a few people on the way in--she and Maxie are scheduled to take lunch together, but he's not here now. He'd said that her dad had been well when he visited Sunday, and she's so grateful to Maxie that he's gone to see Mitchell this past fortnight, that they've made friends. Her father thinks Maxie's brill, wants him to come back and watch the cricket with him whenever he can. 

Althea wants to go back herself again and see Mitchell this afternoon, if she can get away early. She needs to mention it to Potter, see if he'll let her leave for Bristol. She knows it's not a typical day, but Potter'd also said they needed to get back. Robards is feeling antsy. Althea's not surprised. She's seen the _Prophet_ headlines the past two days, suggesting that there's gross incompetence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. They're going after Proudfoot first, but Robards' name had been mentioned as well, as had Shacklebolt's, and an editorial from Barnabas Cuffe had suggested that perhaps the Wizengamot might call for a vote of no-confidence in the Minister, particularly given his opposition to the Death Eater registry legislation that's starting to gain traction. 

Althea doesn't like the direction her country's starting to turn towards. Even Maxie had been resistant to the idea that she'd go to Lucius Malfoy's funeral. It'd look bad for her, he'd said when she'd firecalled him Tuesday night, a frown on his face. She ought not to be at a known Death Eater's funeral. For a moment she'd nearly agreed, but then she'd remembered Malfoy's stricken face when the news came in about his father, and she'd shaken her head, told Maxie it wasn't about memorialising a Death Eater but rather about being there for a member of her team who'd lost a dad, the way Malfoy would be there for her if it'd been Mitchell who'd been murdered. 

Maxie had just snorted, told Althea she was a damned fool. Maybe he's right, she thinks, but she doesn't much care. Not after everything Seven-Four-Alpha's been through since she'd come on board.

When Althea opens the door to the incident room-- _their_ incident room, with their whiteboards and their desks and the familiar clutter scattered across it--her heart actually skips. If she's honest, she's bloody glad to be back here as well. Setting her boots back on British soil feels right. New York had been an interesting break, a good chance to see how MACUSA polices, but Althea's glad to be back in London, back in here in the Ministry, blowing on a cup of proper tea and hearing the sounds of a proper Auror force around her. Even the smells are familiar, and although she knows this is a difficult homecoming, she's glad to be faced with it finally instead of dreading it from afar. New York'd been unreal, like a holiday on Mars. She'd had a great time shagging Lucy and the work'd been interesting, but there's nothing quite like home, is there?

Parkinson traipses in next, her satchel slung about her shoulder and sunglasses pushed up on her head, her dark hair pulled back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She's lovely in heels and bright green trousers with a wispy, floral chiffon blouse that dips down low enough to let a glimpse of creamy skin and lace edging show, and Althea lets herself look a bit. Respectfully, of course. 

"All right there, Parkinson?" Althea asks, taking in the curve of Parkinson's neck, the quirk of her gorgeous, scarlet-lipped mouth. Althea wonders what it'd be like to kiss her, to have that bright red lippie smeared across her own mouth. She breathes out, then takes a sip of her tea, trying to keep her hand from trembling. _Pull yourself together, you idiot,_ she tells herself. _You don't shag your co-workers, remember? Even if your guv doesn't seem to give a fuck._ She looks away when Parkinson smiles at her, bright and sunny and oh so sharp as only Parkinson can manage.

"Rather, thanks," Parkinson says cheekily. "All right yourself, Whitaker?"

Althea nods. "Just getting comfortable again." She's sitting at the table in the corner, one that used to be Malfoy's, or Parkinson's perhaps, but Althea knows she's got her place in the team now and she can sit where she likes. She hardly remembers being afraid to take the wrong seat, but she knows she had been at the beginning.

Parkinson plops down next to her and starts rummaging in her satchel. Her coffee's on the table, and Althea's amused. She's also trying not to look down Parkinson's shirt too much--Parkinson has something lovely on in ivory lace, and Althea doesn't want to fixate on her bra but, well, for Circe's sake, it's right there in front of her. "I can't find any proper quills in here."

Althea reaches into her own satchel, pulls out the new ones she'd packed today. "Take one of mine. I had a set in my desk at home."

Parkinson selects one with a lovely stripe to the black feather. "Ta, you beautiful Ravenclaw." She blows her a kiss with the feather, touching it lightly to her lips and making Althea swallow hard in astonishment before looking away. "This is brilliant."

As much as she tries not to stare at Parkinson, Althea fails. Mentally she kicks herself. Over and over again. Having a pash on a co-worker is so sodding passé, as much as it seems to be the norm rather than the exception in Seven-Four-Alpha. But none of them are your bog-standard Aurors, are they? 

As if on schedule, Zabini comes in looking a bit worse for the wear. He's beautifully dressed, of course, but his face looks a bit worn and harsh and Althea thinks she detects a hint of sadness under the irritation. He sets his coffee down hard, splashing a bit across the top of his desk. "Morning, witches."

Parkinson eyes him, sipping from her own cup and leaving a crimson-coloured stain on the edge. It's darker than the shade she'd been wearing in New York, not that Althea's watching or thinking about her colleague's lipstick choices. Not at all. "What's flown up your broom twigs, darling?" Her tone is mocking, but Althea knows that Zabini would've responded badly to compassion. She's learnt that much about him in recent weeks.

Zabini leans back in his chair. "What hasn't? Mother and my grandfather have settled in my flat. She can't stop complaining about how cramped everything is. It's a bloody two-bedroom, and I'm sleeping on the fucking sofa so she and Grandfather can have the beds, so I don't know what she's whinging on about."

Parkinson shakes her head in commiseration. "Well, it's not as though we can afford the Beaumont with our pay packets." 

"Exactly." Zabini snorts. "And they expect me to have time to squire them around the city. Mother was actually incensed that I had to work today. She wanted to go to lunch."

Parkinson laughs, whilst Althea tries to imagine a parent who doesn't understand workdays. 

"The sheer affront," Althea says, trying to put a toe in the Slytherin game of mockery. It seems to work.

"Can you imagine?" Zabini puts his hand to his chest in mock outrage. He's clearly feeling better, Althea thinks. He just needed to be distracted. "That I might actually have to be an Auror for a bit."

"And what about a certain American Unspeakable?" Parkinson eyes him. "Has he firecalled yet?"

Zabini glances towards the door. The guv should come in any minute, and Zabini's look is wary. Althea doesn't blame him. She wonders what the guv will think of someone from his team shagging his ex. It's awkward, she supposes, but so is buggering one of your sergeants, and Potter doesn't seem to have had a problem with that. Zabini shrugs. "No. But we've texted a bit. He's busy with something Graves wants." He looks a bit put out.

"Any sexy photos?" Parkinson looks over. "I wouldn't mind a look at what you've been busy with."

"Pansy, he's an Unspeakable." Zabini purses his lips.

"You didn't answer the question," Althea says. She sees Zabini narrow his eyes at her, and yeah, she's pretty sure Durant gave Zabini some photos to remember him by. She smiles at him over the rim of her tea.

Zabini mutters something about Ravenclaws dressed as Slytherins, but he's saved from further outrage by the door opening. The guv comes in red braces and dark trousers, his shirt sleeves buttoned and his arm still in that bloody sling, his jacket in his other hand. He smiles. "There you all are. Thrilled to be back at work again, I'm certain."

The room feels strangely hollow without Malfoy. Althea wants to look around for him, but she checks herself. It feels as if he should be here, and she misses him. Merlin, but she never would have thought that a month ago. Never would have considered calling any of this lot her friends. Especially not Malfoy. 

Potter settles his things on the table nearest the door, dropping his jacket across it and taking a miniaturised satchel out of his pocket with his left hand, then saying the spell to restore it to size.

"Well, we're back," he says when he's done. He regards them each in turn. "And it looks like this is going to be our team going forward. The four of us." He sounds a bit regretful. Tired even. Definitely unhappy.

Zabini and Parkinson look at each other quickly, then over at Althea. She shrugs and glances back at Potter. 

"What about Malfoy?" Althea asks, leaning forward in her chair. She sets her tea down. "Sorry, guv, but isn't he going to come back too, when he's ready?"

Potter presses his lips together and takes a breath, then shakes his head. "He's going to be offered a position with the Unspeakables when he comes back. They're all but drafting him into Croaker's division given the shortage of Legilimens." He fiddles with his satchel, opening it up with one hand, not looking at any of them.

"What does Draco have to say about it?" Parkinson's voice is sharp, her carriage erect. "I can't imagine he wants to leave us."

Potter shrugs and steps away from his desk, coming to the centre of the room. He leans against what would have been Malfoy's desk. "I'm not sure there's much choice. I tried to argue with Gawain, but Croaker and national security seem to take priority."

Zabini settles back. "Are you sure that you don't take priority, guv? I mean, you're fucking him after all." Parkinson gives him a shocked look, and Althea's a bit taken aback herself at Zabini's bluntness. Zabini frowns at them all. "Sorry, I'm just wondering if it's motivated by that any, Draco's transfer." He looks over at the guv. "I would have thought you'd fight back a bit harder against any national bloody security bollocks, but…" He trails off, his gaze fixed on Potter's face.

The guv rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "It's a fair question, and yeah, I was worried too, Zabini. I'm not half-certain they're moving Draco because I made it clear I wasn't going to hide my relationship with him. You're not far off what I asked Gawain myself." He meets Zabini's frown with an even look of his own. "But I do think it's also about the Legilimency. Saul Croaker's desperate to have that specialty, particularly with Jake back in New York." He hesitates, then he says, "They want to train him. Pay for it all with a top-notch Legilimens, and possibly bump his rank up in the Unspeakables force. This isn't a demotion for Draco, and it doesn't preclude his working with us on cases." Potter's mouth tightens. "I'll make damned certain of that. It helps to be best mates with a high-ranking Unspeakable myself."

This seems to mollify Zabini, and Althea does believe, of all people, Potter tries to have Malfoy's best interests at heart. She's seen them together, and she knows that the guv, for all his failings, truly wants Malfoy to succeed.

"Well, I guess it's just us, then," Parkinson says archly, sipping at her coffee, then putting it aside.

Potter looks over to her. "Yeah. Just us. With a little change."

They all look at him expectantly. 

"Whitaker's our sergeant now." Potter smiles and looks over at Althea, who can't help but blink at him. "Gawain asked to have you put in that role formally for the team."

To Althea's great surprise, Zabini and Parkinson clap, genuine if slightly smug smiles on their faces. 

"Hear, hear," Zabini says, as Parkinson adds, "Well done, Althea." She reaches across her desk to touch Althea's arm, and a frisson of warmth goes through Althea. 

Althea can feel her face heat. She ducks her head. "Thanks, guv. I'm happy to serve, if you'll have me."

Potter's smile widens. "I'll need some help with these two. We all know who's in charge, after all."

Parkinson sticks out her tongue, whilst Zabini whispers "Draco" sotte voce. Potter pretends not to hear, but Althea catches the faint hint of red across his high cheekbones, sees the slight quirk of his mouth at the corner. Zabini's not far off, Althea thinks. Whatever the guv might believe. 

"Well. I know you all have your drinks, but I reckon it's my shout at the teacart this morning," Potter says, his voice light and teasing. "I'm sure you're all dying for a pumpkin pasty." He shoots a look at Zabini. "Or three." Zabini just shrugs at him, gives the guv a lazy, easy smile.

The funny thing is, Althea actually could bloody well murder a pasty right now, or whatever else Margaret has on her cart. 

As she follows them all out into the hall, her team with her guv, she thinks, maybe being home won't be that bad.

Merlin's tits, though, she's going to miss Malfoy's snark. A fucking hell of a lot.

***

When Harry walks back into Draco's flat just past four, he hears raised voices, then the distinct sound of crockery shattering against the kitchen wall. He drops his jacket, not bothering to hang it on the wall hook, and strides down the hallway.

The kitchen's a mess; half of one cupboard appears to have been flung across the room. Shards of pottery are scattered across the floor, and Narcissa's standing there, another soup bowl in her hand, her shoulders heaving. 

"Calm the fuck down, Mother." Draco's back is to Harry, and his voice sounds strained, tired. "I'd really rather you not destroy my entire kitchen over a sodding _Prophet_ article."

"What's wrong?" Harry asks from the doorway, and they both turn to look at him. A faint flush stains Narcissa's pale cheeks, and from the frown on Draco's face, Harry realises this is something he wasn't meant to see. Fuck that, he thinks. So they thought they'd have it all cleaned up before he came back. It's not as if he still wouldn't have had to deal with the fallout. Honestly, Malfoys think they can hide everything from the world, present this acceptable, polished front. They're sodding stupid about that, in Harry's opinion.

There's a _Prophet_ on the island counter. Harry picks it up, frowns down at the front page. It's the usual bollocks about the current Ministry political situation and Luxembourg's involvement in it. But down at the corner's a photograph. From yesterday, Harry realises. After the funeral. He can see Draco and Narcissa front and center, their bright blond hair gleaming in the sunlight, but they're surrounded by Kingsley and Gawain and Bertie Aubrey. Harry sees himself just behind them, with Ron and Hermione at his side, the rest of Seven-Four-Alpha a step to the right. But it's the text that's the problem, he realises. Orla Quirke's done it again, writing a terse, vicious paragraph about the Ministry notables at the funeral of known Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. _It begs one to ask,_ she's written, _why so many Aurors and politicians showed up for Malfoy's funeral, when not a single Auror representative--much less Harry Potter, himself--attended the services of Hit Wizard Winston Chang this past Monday, or Unspeakable Phoebe Rayne on Sunday. When asked, Department of Mysteries head Saul Croaker had no comment for the_ Prophet, _but one might speculate, given recent events, that perhaps there are more Death Eater sympathisers than one might like within the ranks of our Magical Law Enforcement._

"Cow," Harry says, and he drops the _Prophet_ back down on the counter. He looks over at Narcissa. "This upset you enough to destroy half of Draco's soup service? It's less about your husband than the Auror force."

Narcissa leans against the counter. Draco takes the soup bowl from her, sets it back into the cupboard. "It's not just the article," she says.

Harry moves closer to her. "Then what is it?" Draco turns away, his back to both of them, his hands splayed against the sink, his shoulders hunched, his head bent. Exhaustion radiates from him, and Harry's worried. It's all getting to be too much for him, Harry thinks, this emotion his mother's swirling through. Harry knows it's bringing up other things for Draco. Memories about the war. The aftermath. He's been next to Draco this week as Draco cries out in their bed, tossing and turning as the dreams wrack his body. Harry doesn't know if Draco remembers them in the morning. They've never spoken of them, but Harry won't forget the things Draco says, the whispers Draco breathes out in his troubled sleep.

How Draco has lived with some of this, Harry doesn't know.

"I know the world wants me to hate my husband," Narcissa says, her voice quiet, yet raw. She looks up at Harry, and he can see the anguish written in the lines of her face. "But I don't. I never have, even when I turned him in--" The words catch in the back of her throat, crack a bit. 

Harry reaches for Narcissa with his good arm, pulls her up against him. She feels fragile and frail as she twists her fingers in his shirt. Harry holds back the wince. He hasn't been taking his pain potion the way he ought to have. He's been hiding that from Draco, but he's needed to be more coherent than the primary pain potion makes him feel, more able to handle the emotional waves that have been coming at him here in the small footprint of Draco's flat. He lets Narcissa press her face against his chest, gives her the comfort that he knows Draco isn't entirely capable of right now. "I'm sorry," Harry murmurs.

Narcissa breathes out. "Never mind me, Inspector--"

"Harry," he says gently, reminding her, and she pulls back, looks up at him. 

"Yes." Narcissa wipes the corners of her eyes with one thumb. "Of course. Harry." She draws in a ragged breath. "I'm being a right fool, I suppose." 

"One who destroys my kitchen," Draco says from the sink. He still hasn't turned around. "For fuck's sake, Mother." He sounds angry. Bitter. 

At his wit's end, Harry thinks. 

Narcissa looks away. She folds her arms across her chest, bends her head so a loose lock of her hair falls forward over her cheek. Harry wonders if she knows how much like her son she looks. 

"I haven't anything for dinner," Draco says. He turns around and there's a bright, half-mad look in his eyes. "The pantry's bare."

It's not, but Harry thinks Draco needs to get out of the flat. And Narcissa needs a moment alone to compose herself. "We could go to Sainsbury's." He looks at Narcissa. "If you don't mind."

Draco nods, tucks his hair behind one ear. "You'll be fine, Mother. Just don't shatter all of my fucking dishes."

Narcissa's face flushes again. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice formal and flat. "It was rude of me."

Draco doesn't answer; he just walks past Harry and says, "I need to get my shoes." 

And then Harry's left in the kitchen alone with Draco's mother. Narcissa doesn't look at him. She just takes her wand out and starts to Vanish away the tiny shards of broken pottery, shattered beyond proper repair.

"My apologies," she says after a moment. "I hadn't meant to lose my temper that way. I'm afraid I've angered my son."

"He'll get over it," Harry says. He watches her. Narcissa moves slowly, her shoulders bent, her hair slipping out of the loose knot at the nape of her neck. The dress she's wearing is clean but crumpled, and she hasn't put on any makeup. It's the first time Harry thinks he's seen her face entirely bare. Her brows are light, her lashes so pale they're almost nonexistent, her cheeks a bit blotchy. She still looks beautiful. Delicate, yet strong. Determined, he thinks, and he sees so much of her son in her. Harry hesitates, then he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Narcissa doesn't answer at first, then she glances over at him. She looks tired, worn out. "There's nothing really to say, Harry. I'm angry and sad, and if it weren't for me, my husband wouldn't have been in the place in which he lost his life, not to mention those other poor people..." She trails off, turns her head away from Harry. He can tell by the set of her shoulders that she's fighting back another wave of tears. 

"It's not your fault," he starts to say, but she cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head.

"Their actual deaths? No." Narcissa stiffens, her mouth a tight line. "That lies fully on my brother-in-law's shoulders. Rodolphus always was a bastard." The word sounds strange from Narcissa's lips. She Vanishes the last bit of broken pottery. "But you might understand my uncertainty about whether or not I made the right choice to turn Lucius in." She rolls her wand between her fingertips; a faint spray of pale blue sparks flies out, dissipates in the air. "Perhaps it would have been wiser for me to handle him in a different manner. I could have forced him to stop associating with those idiots--"

'But could you have?" Harry asks gently, and she looks at him then. "Your husband kept being drawn back into it all. You never could stop him before. You did what you thought was right, and we…" Harry sighs, his heart heavy. "We didn't protect him well enough. The Ministry, I mean. Whatever the fucking _Prophet_ says….they're right about that. We fucked up. We didn't see Lestrange coming, and your husband paid the price. So did Winston Chang and Phoebe Rayne and Lotte Marquandt and Achilleus Avery. They're all dead because Rodolphus Lestrange escaped our care. Not because you turned your husband in for criminal activity."

Narcissa's silent, and Harry thinks she's angry with him until she leans back against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. "I blame myself," she says quietly. "And I think my son does as well."

Harry shakes his head. "He wouldn't." 

"Grief does strange things to one's thinking," Narcissa says, and she gives Harry a small, wry smile. "Be careful with him, Harry. He's far more fragile than he understands."

"I know." And that's what worries Harry, if he's honest. He's waiting for Draco to fall apart. Wondering when it might happen.

There's a footstep in the hall, and Harry turns around just as Draco walks in, his white shirt still untucked over his jeans, his boots on, his hair slightly mussed. "Let's go," Draco says, not looking at his mother.

Harry gives Narcissa a sympathetic glance, but he follows Draco out of the flat, and down the staircase to the entrance hall of the building. Neither of them speak; Draco still has his arms folded across his chest. Harry wants to take his hand, but he doesn't think Draco wants to be touched at the moment. 

"All right?" he asks instead, and Draco just shrugs. 

"I will be." Draco holds the door open for Harry.

Harry thinks that's about as much as he'll get from Draco at the moment, so he lets him be. 

Sainsbury's is two streets away. The walk's nice enough; it's pleasantly warm without being sweltering. The perfect Thursday afternoon, with the sun high in the sky and no chance of rain. The trees that line the street are the bright, vibrant shades of green that only happen in summer, their leaves casting shadows across the pavement. Harry likes the walk; he feels as if he's been cooped up inside far too much this week, trapped in the tangle of grief that's twisted up between Draco and his mum. Even being at the Ministry had been a bit of a relief, as much as Harry'd missed Draco, as much as Harry'd worried about him. He's starting to understand what Ron had meant about being overwhelmed by Draco's emotions, and he thinks maybe Draco's getting lost in them as well. 

They're halfway to the market when Draco glances over at Harry and says, "I had an owl from Saul Croaker today."

"Oh," is all that Harry can say. He waits, uncertainly. 

Draco looks away again. "They want me to come on board as an Unspeakable. Away from Seven-Four-Alpha."

"I know," Harry admits, and Draco doesn't look surprised. "Gawain told me Croaker wanted to offer it to you after the funeral. I didn't want to say with everything that was going on. Thought it might be too much for you."

Draco just nods. His arms are folded across his chest again, and he's worrying the fabric of his sleeve between his fingertips. "Are you angry?"

Yes, Harry wants to say, but he sighs. "Do you want to take it? It'd be good for you. The Legilimency bit."

Draco stops at the street corner, waits for the light to change before he steps into the zebra crossing. Harry follows him. "I don't know," Draco says after a moment. "I might." He looks over at Harry. "Then again, I'm not so certain they're going to give me a choice. Not after you and I…" He pushes his hair back behind his ears and glances away. "Well. I can't be under your command if I'm dating you, can I?"

"I suppose not." Harry's arm aches. He wishes he'd taken his pain potion. He stops in front of the trolley rack in the Sainsbury's car park and digs in his pocket for a pound coin to leave for the deposit. It takes him a moment, but he finds one and shoves it in the slot, pulling out a trolley with his good hand whilst Draco waits, looking off into the distance, his hands shoved in his pockets, shirt rucked up over them. Harry looks back at him. "Does it bother you?"

"A little," Draco says. He falls into step beside Harry. "I'm not certain I'm Unspeakable material. Much less Legilimency." 

Harry wants to scoff at that. "Jake said you were the most natural Legilimens he's seen."

"I'm not certain I want to have your ex praising me," Draco says, but Harry catches sight of a soft smile curving his lips before Draco tips his head, letting his hair fall forward, curtaining his face.

They step through the sliding doors and into the cool crispness of Sainsbury's. Harry heads for the produce section first, tossing some fruit and veg into the trolley without really thinking. Draco wanders beside him, looking a bit lost. 

"I'll miss Seven-Four-Alpha," Draco says finally, adding a bag of grapes to the trolley. He doesn't glance up at Harry. 

Harry lets his hand catch Draco's. He squeezes Draco's hand gently before letting it drop. "I'll fight it if you want me to."

Draco hesitates, then he shakes his head. "It wouldn't work." He sighs, walking beside Harry as they head for the fish counter. "Besides, it's for the best, really. For you and me."

It is, and they both know it. "Doesn't make it easier," Harry says. "It didn't feel right, you not being there with us this morning." He wants to tell Draco it feels as if there's a hole without him, as if the entire team's been gutted. They'd all missed him. Even Whitaker. Still, he thinks that's the team's place to tell Draco. Not his. 

Draco doesn't say anything. He just rests his hand over Harry's on the trolley handle, his pale, thin fingers covering Harry's thick ones. Warmth spreads through Harry at the touch. He loves this prickly bastard of his. Madly. And he'd do anything for him. Whatever he needs to do, Harry will. He hopes Draco knows that. 

They've made their way through most of the store, adding things to the trolley basket, before Draco says, "I want jam tarts."

Harry glances back down the store and frowns. "I want to pick up some eggs. I'll meet you in over there?"

Draco nods, and Harry watches him as he walks away. Harry's still worried about Draco, but he's seemed better as they've wandered the Sainsbury's aisles. Harry's deliberately gone slower than he would have on his own. Draco needs this time out, needs to be able to be apart from his mother. Needs a chance to separate himself from her grief. It's good for him, Harry thinks, and, as he sorts through the eggs, picking out a decent half-dozen, he considers how else he can give Draco this space. 

Which is why it takes him by surprise when he turns down the aisle for baked goods and sees Draco still staring at the packages of biscuits, his face pale, his hands shaking. 

"What's wrong?" Harry asks, pulling the trolley to a stop beside Draco. 

"They don't have them." Draco's voice is thin, strained. "They don't have the bloody jam tarts--"

Harry pulls a package of tarts from the shelf. "They're right here--"

"Those aren't the right ones." Draco draws in a ragged breath. "I like the Mr Kipling ones, not the store brand." He looks at Harry, pushes the package out of his hands. They drop to the floor with a soft thud. "These aren't fucking right, Harry." His voice rises. 

"Draco--" Harry starts to say, but then Draco's face crumples, and Harry has just enough time to grab at Draco, not even caring that a jolt of pain goes through his wounded shoulder. He misses and Draco's on his knees in the middle of the aisle, his whole body trembling, and he's sobbing. Raw, angry sobs that make his shoulders shake, that echo in the silence of Sainsbury's in the late afternoon. 

This isn't about jam tarts. Even Harry knows that. He looks around. They're alone in the aisle, so Harry does the only thing he can think of doing. He pushes the trolley away, and he kneels beside Draco. "We're going home," he says softly, and he wraps his arm around Draco. "Can you hold on to me?"

Draco nods, and his arms go around Harry's neck, his face pressed to Harry's bad shoulder. Harry draws in a deep breath against the pain, and then he does something no bloody Auror ought to do. 

He Apparates them both out of Sainsbury's, hoping madly that no one turns the corner of the aisle. 

They land in the front hall of Grimmauld Place. Draco's shaking against Harry, and his sobs feel as if they're being ripped from him, harsh and wild and furious. This is what Draco's needed, Harry thinks. To feel the grief of losing his father. He's been holding it inside too long, trying his best to be strong for his mother. 

That sort of thing never bloody works. Not in the long run, Harry thinks. Even as much as he's managed to keep bottled up, he'd still spent days the summer after the war locked away on his own, letting the angry tears out. They'd come even when he wished they wouldn't.

Somehow Harry gets Draco to the kitchen, sits him at the table. And then Kreacher's there, pushing Harry away, putting the kettle on before Harry can ask him to. 

Harry sits with Draco whilst he cries, his face hidden by his hands, and when the sobs finally slow, Kreacher sets a cup of hot, milky tea in front of Draco, resting one long, bony hand on Draco's shoulder. The kitchen feels warmer and brighter, Harry thinks, and then he realises it's the house itself, doing what it can to comfort Draco, to make him feel welcomed. Safe. 

"Better?" Harry asks, and he feels a bloody fool when he does, but Draco just wipes the back of his hand across his wet eyes and gives Harry a faint smile. 

"Somewhat." Draco's voice is low. Rough. He draws in a slow breath, then exhales. "I feel foolish."

"You shouldn't." Harry watches as Draco sips the tea, as the blotches of pink start to fade from his face. "You're grieving, Draco."

Draco sets his cup down. "For a bastard."

"For your _father._ " Harry shifts in his chair, his shoulder twinging. "He was an arsehole, but he was still your dad."

They're silent for a moment, then Draco says, "I can't go back tonight." He stares down at his half-empty cup. "To my flat."

"I know." Harry sits back in his chair. "We're staying here."

"My mother--" A flush of guilt goes across Draco's cheeks.

"I'll handle it." Harry stands. "You finish your tea, then come up to the library and find me. Yeah? Kreacher'll pour you another cuppa if you need it." Kreacher's standing at the hob, watching them both, thin shoulders hunched, his face worried and drawn. Harry knows Kreacher will look after Draco without hesitation if only Draco will let him.

Draco just nods, but he doesn't look at Harry. Still, when Harry rests his hand on Draco's shoulder, Draco reaches up, brushes Harry's knuckles with his fingertips. "Thank you," Draco murmurs, and Harry just squeezes his shoulder gently before pulling away. He glances back at Draco from the doorway. Draco's leaning on his elbows, his face pale, a bit gaunter than Harry'd like it to be. He looks exhausted and emotionally drawn. Harry wishes there was something--anything--he could do to take the pain of all this away. He knows he can't. He can just be there for moments like this. Moments when Draco needs to break. 

If nothing else, Harry can make him feel safe. 

He goes upstairs to the Floo and firecalls Andromeda. She answers immediately, and when Harry explains what's happened, she sighs. "Poor boy," Andromeda says. "It was bound to happen, but still."

"We're staying here at Grimmauld tonight," Harry says. "He needs some space. Some time away." He hesitates. "I hate to ask, but can you take Narcissa on? For a few days? It's just they're not…" Harry doesn't know how to say it. "He's not letting himself feel things properly. He thinks he has to be strong for his mum, and, well." Today happens, he thinks. He falls apart in the middle of bloody Sainsbury's over sodding jam tarts. 

"I've been waiting," Andromeda says. "I didn't want to push, but I thought this might happen. Don't worry. I'll look after Narcissa. You take care of Draco."

"Thanks," Harry says, and he means it. "Tell Narcissa not to fret about us. I'll send Kreacher over later to pick up clothes for Draco." And his own satchel, Harry thinks. He's not certain they're going back to Draco's flat any time soon.

Harry sits back on his heels after Andromeda says goodbye, taking a deep breath as he watches the flames shift from green back to orange. He wonders if he can do this, if he really can take care of Draco, if that's what Draco needs from him. 

He wants to try. Wants to be here for the man he loves. 

Slowly, Harry pushes himself to his feet, letting out a soft huff of pain as he does so. He turns, and Draco's in the doorway, watching him. 

"Are you taking your pain potion?" Draco asks, his eyes narrowed. 

"Yes," Harry lies, but there's a tenseness around Draco's mouth that lets Harry know Draco doesn't believe him. 

"Bollocks," Draco says as Harry walks over to him. "Harry, you have to--"

"I will." Harry leans in and kisses Draco, slow and careful, his lips warm against Draco's soft mouth. Draco falls silent. Harry pulls back and looks at him. "You need to rest. We're going upstairs, and we're going to have a bit of a lie down, yeah? I'll even take something for the pain if it'll make you feel better."

"Please." Draco's hand settles on Harry's hip. "I'll only rest if you do."

Harry nods. "And then we'll get up and eat. Kreacher'll make anything you want."

"I'm not really hungry," Draco says, but when Harry gives him a frown, he sighs. "Maybe a cheese toastie."

"You hate cheese toasties," Harry says. "You mock me for eating them."

Draco starts up the stairs. "I mock you for only eating them, you idiot. You can't survive on nothing but a toastie." The staircase grows brighter as they walk up it, and the scent of roses starts to drift towards them. Draco smoothes his palm over one of the newel posts. "Your house missed me, Harry."

"Not really surprising." Harry takes the last few steps up to the landing. "I think it loves you almost as much as I do."

That makes Draco look back at him, his hand already on the doorknob to their bedroom. "You're a sentimental twat, Harry Potter," he says, but he's smiling faintly, and the look he gives Harry is warm and soft. 

Harry touches Draco's face, leans in and kisses him once more. "But I do love you," he whispers against Draco's lips. "Madly even."

Draco breathes out, lets his cheek rub against Harry's. "I don't know why," he says finally. "But I do love you too." He pulls back, looks over at Harry. "Thank you," he says. "For being here for me."

Harry lets Draco lead him to the bed. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"Liar," Draco says as he toes off his boots and his socks, then stretches out on his side of the bed. And, Harry wonders, when did he start thinking of it as Draco's side, anyway? But it is, and Draco looks right, all long and lean and pale against Harry's navy blue coverlet. Draco glances at him. "You promised you'd rest too. Potion first, though."

"I will." Harry takes his boots off, unsnaps his braces and sets them aside, then goes to the en suite and quaffs a paracetamol rather than a pain potion, rinsing it down with a handful of water. He climbs up on the bed behind Draco, taking care with his shoulder. 

Draco's half-asleep already, and Harry's not surprised. That burst of grief had to have worn him out. Harry smoothes Draco's hair back, kisses his temple. 

"You know, I really do love you, Harry Potter," Draco murmurs, his eyes still closed. "Probably more than's healthy." He yawns a bit. "Prat."

Harry can't help but smile. "I know." He rests his head on the pillow beside Draco's, breathing in the soft scent of sandalwood and clover in Draco's cologne. He rests his hand on Draco's side; he can feel the slow rise and fall of Draco's breath, can tell as it evens out when Draco finally slips into sleep. 

To his great surprise, Harry does too.

***

Draco wakes to the sound of the shower in the en suite, soft golden light spilling out from the half-open door. The rest of the bedroom's cast in shadows; the windows are dark through the sheer curtains, and one small lamp flickers warmly on top of Harry's tall dresser, beside the small sex toy chest that Draco still remembers the password to.

He sits up, a bit groggily. Draco hadn't meant to sleep this long, and his head feels a bit thick and fuzzy. Still, his heart's a bit less heavy and tight, and his body's not as tense as it'd been before the ragged sobs wracked his soul. 

The wooden floor's cool beneath his bare feet as he pushes himself up, pads towards the en suite for a quick slash. He also wants to see Harry, to know he's still here with him, even though logically Draco realises he must be. It's not as if anyone else is going to have turned the shower on, after all. 

Steam fills the en suite, fogging up the mirror and making Draco's skin feel warm and wet. Merlin only knows what it's doing to his hair. At least he can't look in the mirror and tell. Harry's clothes are in a pile on the floor, his pants and arm sling on top. Draco leans down, picks them up. Folds them. He's tutted at Harry before about the way Harry treats his clothes, dropping them wherever he feels like. Draco sets them on the side of the sink, a neat stack of cotton and twill. He almost thinks about complaining again, but he doesn't know that he has it in him. At the moment at least. 

And then Draco hears a soft noise from the shower. A half-groan, followed by a breath. He turns his head, catches a glimpse of Harry behind the curtain, his feet planted firmly in the tub, his back to Draco, hair wet, water pouring across his golden skin. Harry's beautiful, Draco thinks, his gaze drifting across the muscled expanse of Harry's shoulders, down to his narrow waist and hips, over the round swell of his taut arsecheeks. It's the first time Draco's seen Harry naked in a week, and his body responds, his cheeks heating, his cock starting to harden in his jeans. It surprises Draco. He hasn't even wanted to wank for days.

It's then that Harry shifts, turns just enough for Draco to see Harry's left hand on his prick, moving slowly. Awkwardly. His foreskin slips back, and Draco can see Harry's cock rising up, hardening with each careful, fumbling stroke. His wounded right arm hangs limp at his side, unable even to hold Harry up, and Harry turns again, pushing his back against the tiled wall as his left hand pulls harder at his prick, tugs his foreskin over the swollen, ruddy head. 

Draco watches. Harry's eyes are closed. Water runs down his broad chest, rivulets forming in the scattering of dark curls, dripping from the hard nubs of his pebbled brown nipples. Harry breathes out again, a quiet, careful huff that opens his lips just enough to make Draco want to climb in the tub fully dressed and kiss him. 

Harry's right shoulder is red and raw, the skin just barely knit together. Draco can barely look at it without thinking of that moment when Harry fell beneath Dolohov's hex, the fear that had overtaken Draco, the terror that Harry would never get up again. That he was gone. That Draco had lost him. 

What does it mean, Draco wonders, that Harry's death would have destroyed him? Utterly and completely. Whereas he can live through his father's murder. He can walk through the day, can breathe, can let himself exist. But if he'd lost Harry….Merlin. The very thought makes Draco want to sink to his knees, his body bent with anguish. 

This must be what it feels like for his mother, he thinks, and something around his heart loosens, a furl of sympathy twisting through him. If it'd been Harry, even this soon in their relationship, Draco wouldn't have been able to bear it. How much worse must it be for his mother, who'd spent thirty-two years of her life in love with Lucius Malfoy?

Somehow Draco must make a soft noise because Harry's hand stills. His eyes open, and he's looking at Draco, a flush going across his cheeks. "Oh." Harry's hand falls away from his prick. "I'm sorry--"

"Don't stop," Draco says, and his voice is rough and raw. "Please."

Harry just stands there, uncertain. "Draco--"

And then Draco's climbing into the tub, without shucking off his shirt or jeans, and the warm water pours over him from the shower, wetting his hair, his clothes, sticking them to his skin. Draco doesn't care. "Harry," he manages to say, and then he's kissing Harry, their mouths wet, Draco's hands cupping Harry's slick cheeks. He rocks his hips forward, lets Harry feel the swell of his own prick against Harry's, only the wet denim and cotton of Draco's jeans and pants separating them. 

"Christ," Harry gasps against Draco's mouth, and his left arm wraps around Draco's waist, pulling him closer. "I didn't want--" He breaks off in a groan as Draco's fingers brush over the head of his cock. "You don't have to--"

"I want to," Draco says, and he does. "You could have asked, you idiot. If you needed this."

Harry buries his face against the curve of Draco's throat, breathing hard as Draco pulls at Harry's foreskin, tugs it over Harry's slick head. "You didn't need me adding to everything," he says. "I can wank--"

"Not well," Draco says, turning his head to nip at Harry's jaw. "Not with that arm."

"It takes a little longer," Harry admits. His breath catches as Draco's fingers stroke down his shaft. The quiet sound shudders through Draco's body. Makes him _want_ , the way he hasn't for days. 

Draco steps back, lets his hand fall away from Harry's prick. Harry bites off a protest and stands silently beneath the warm spray of the shower. Draco starts to unbutton his shirt, his wet hair falling into his face. Harry just watches him, eyes bright and hot. Draco lets the wet cotton fall off his shoulders, lets it land with a sodden plop against the porcelain bottom of the tub. "Harry," he says, his voice soft, and he fumbles with the button and zip of his jeans. It's only then he realises how stupid he was to get into the shower with them on. They stick to him, heavy and wet, and he nearly falls trying to shove them down his thighs. Harry catches him with his good arm, holds him steady with a soft laugh. 

And then Draco's laughing as well, a well-spring of sharp, painful joy that bubbles up as he stands in the shower, his jeans down around his knees, until it twists like a knife, its edges opening Draco up, making his feelings roll through him, angry and harsh and raw, and his laughter slows, turns to hot tears that spill down his face, mixing with the warmth of the shower spray. 

Harry holds Draco close as he sobs, one arm around him, their skin slick and wet and hot against each other, their swollen pricks bobbing between them, pressing together. 

"I don't want to think," Draco manages to choke out, his face pressed against Harry's good shoulder, his hands tight on Harry's hips. "Please." 

"Wait here," Harry says, and then he's gone, and Draco's standing mostly naked beneath the shower, his back pressed against the tiled corner, tears still leaking from the corners of his tightly clenched eyes. 

It only takes a moment before Harry's back, but it feels an eternity to Draco. But he hears the shower curtain pull back, and the water turn off, and he's cold suddenly, even in the warmth of the steam. When he looks down, Harry's crouched at the side of the tub, his wand in his hand, and he casts a Severing Charm on Draco's jeans, cutting them from Draco's calves. The heavy, wet denim slides off, landing wetly beside his shirt, and Draco can step out of his pants. He leaves them there too as Harry holds out his hand, helps him step out onto the thick, plush bath mat. 

Harry kisses Draco. It's slow and careful. Easy, almost, the way their bodies fit together. Draco's hair is sodden, lank against his cheek, his nape. He shivers against Harry's body, the chill of the air striking his wet skin. Harry smoothes his hand down Draco's back, still kissing him, and Draco could lose himself in the soft, gentle press of Harry's lips against his. It's not a desperate kiss, not wanton, but one filled with love, and care, and worry, the kind of kiss that promises not an night of passion but a lifetime of devotion. 

And it takes Draco's breath away. 

"Harry," he says. "I need…" He doesn't know what exactly. He just knows that he couldn't bear it if Harry didn't touch him, didn't hold him like this. 

A shudder goes through Draco as Harry steps back, reaches for a towel. Harry dries Draco off, watching him with a kind, yet heated look. "All right?" Harry asks, as he slides behind Draco, drags the pale blue towel down Draco's spine, over Draco's arse. 

Draco just nods. The towel's a caress against his chilled skin. "Yes," he manages after a moment, and his prick has never been so hard, he thinks. Not from a shower. 

Harry presses the towel against Draco's hair, so light, so careful. Draco knows Harry could use a drying charm, but he's glad Harry doesn't. Draco needs to be touched like this, to be cared for as only Harry knows he needs. Draco feels something full and heavy in him shift, and his eyes start to grow damp again. He blinks the tears away, watches in the clearing mirror as Harry bends down to drag the towel up Draco's left leg, then over to his right, just barely letting it brush the underside of Draco's cock. Draco hisses, softly, and when he glances down, Harry's smiling up at him, his eyes so warm and wide without his glasses. 

"Tell me what you want," Harry says, standing up. His prick is nearly flat against his belly, so large and ruddy and thick. Draco wants to put his mouth around Harry's head, to suck the slickness from it, to taste Harry's bittersweet saltiness. 

Instead Draco holds out his hand, and Harry takes it, letting Draco lead him back into the bedroom. Draco stops beside the bed, turns to Harry, touches his cheek, his fingertips so light against Harry's warm skin. "I want you inside of me," Draco says after a moment. "I need to feel you--" His voice breaks. "I need to feel you fucking me." He draws in an unsteady breath. "Please."

Harry nods. "My arm," he says. "We have to take that into account."

"I know." Draco sits on the edge of the bed. He feels strangely shy. He covers by reaching out, dragging his thumb across Harry's slick head, then lifting it to his mouth, sucking the taste of Harry from his skin. Harry breathes in, sharp and rough. "I could ride you." 

"You could." Harry steps back, turns towards his dresser. "But I thought we could start with something else." He opens the toy chest, pulls out a flared plug and holds it up. "All right?"

Draco's stomach flips. "All right," he says, and he scoots up the bed, pressing his feet against the edge of the mattress. He spreads his knees wide. 

Harry's face shifts; Draco can see the pure desire in his eyes. "You're beautiful like that," Harry murmurs, and he pulls the phial of lube from the bedside table, uncapping it and pouring some over his fingers. It's slick and cold against Draco's arse when Harry touches him, but Draco stills himself, fights against the instinctive flinch when Harry presses a finger into his hole. It's a bit awkward; Harry's still using his left hand and he scrapes his fingernail across the inside of Draco's arse. Draco hisses. "Sorry," Harry says, and he starts to pull his hand away. 

"No," Draco says. He tightens his arse around Harry's finger. "Keep going."

Another finger slides in. Harry's watching Draco, and Draco knows Harry's judging his reaction, his response, trying to make certain this is what Draco wants. 

_It's good._ Draco lets the thought slip across Harry's mind, and he sees Harry relax. 

"One more?" Harry asks, and Draco nods, spreading his knees wider, his elbows pressed into the coverlet. His prick bobs in the air, long and thin and pink. Harry presses a third finger in, and Draco lets his head fall back, his body starting to feel the stretch more intensely. Harry twists his fingers, pressing them deeper. It's slow. So very fucking slow, and Draco loves it, loves how he can feel every movement of Harry's fingers inside of him, loves how Harry's thumb strokes the soft skin between his arse and his bollocks. His prick's leaking, smearing across his skin every time his head hits his belly. Draco stretches his arms out across the bed, gives himself into Harry's touch. It feels incredible, like his whole body is on fire.

And then Harry's fingers are gone, and Draco can feel the harder silicone tip of the plug press against his arsehole. "Breathe in and hold," Harry says from between Draco's knees. 

Draco does, and he can feel the plug sliding in, settling deep within his arse. It's almost too much at first. He holds his breath until his lungs burn, and then he exhales in a rush. He fills full, his arse heavy. He looks up at Harry who's smiling down at him. 

"Okay?" Harry asks. 

"It's nice." Draco shifts his hips, feeling the plug press against the ring of muscle around his hole. The pain's shifting, turning into something far more deliciously pleasant. "Very nice."

Harry's smile widens a bit. "Then you won't mind if I do this?" He casts a vibrating charm, and the plug shivers to life in Draco, making Draco fall back against the bed, his hips jerking slightly. 

"Fuck," Draco says, and he bites his lip. "That's even better." 

He can feel Harry's fingers sliding up the inside of his right thigh. "You know," Harry says, "the first time we used one of these--do you remember?"

Draco does. So well. He'd been spread against this very bed, clamps on his nipples, Harry leaning over him, urging him to come. "Yes," he manages to say. He twists his fingers in the coverlet, the plug's vibrations going through him, rumbling against his prostate. He doesn't know how long he'll last like this, if he's honest. He needs to come. Wants to, so desperately. "Why?"

Harry's lips ghost across the head of Draco's prick. "That was the night," Harry says, "that I realised how fucking in love I was with you." His mouth slides over Draco's cock, sucks him in, deep and hard in one smooth slide, and Draco cries out, his hands flexing against the mattress, his shoulders coming up. He can barely think with Harry's mouth on his prick, with the plug shuddering deep inside of him. It's too much, and he presses up, pushes his cock into Harry's mouth as far as he can. Harry pulls back up, almost to the point that the head might slide out, then he breathes out through his nose and pushes back down, his hand going down to cup Draco's bollocks, rolling them with his fingers. 

For a moment, Draco thinks he might die. It'd be a brilliant death, sharp and bright and filled with pleasure, but he can barely breathe, can barely move. His whole body feels tight and hot, and he can't think, can't do anything but feel the way Harry's hand is on him, the way Harry's mouth moves along his prick, the way Harry feels between his spread thighs. 

"Oh," Draco says, breathless. "Oh, Harry. I--" He cries out again as Harry's shoulder rolls against him, pushing one thigh wider, Harry's mouth taking almost all of Draco's prick into it. Draco digs his toes into the mattress, tries to ride out the shudders wracking his body as Harry sucks his cock, hard and fast and quick. 

And just before Draco's certain he can't hold off any longer, Harry pulls his mouth away. Harry reaches down, casting the charm to turn the vibration off, and he pulls the plug from Draco's arse, tossing it to the end of the bed. Draco groans in frustration, his head thudding back against the coverlet, and then he feels the mattress shift as Harry shifts onto the bed, stretches out beside him, long and muscular against Draco's left side. 

"Hey," Harry says, and he runs his good hand along Draco's chest, his thumbnail scraping over one of Draco's nipples. "Okay there?"

"You're a fucking wanker, Harry Potter," Draco chokes out, and Harry just laughs, soft and low, leaning over to kiss the side of Draco's neck.

"I'm wounded," Harry points out. "Arm's supposed to be immobilised, remember?"

Draco turns his head, looks at Harry. "Your mouth's not," he says, a bit more petulantly than he'd like. 

Harry chuckles again, and Draco can feel the rumble of his laugh against his arm. "I'm tired," he admits, and Draco can see a slight spasm of discomfort cross his face. "It takes a lot to do this one-handed. You mentioned something about riding my prick." He looks over at Draco. "If you want?"

Fuck but Draco does. He sits up. "Can you make it to the pillows?" he asks, and Harry eyes the stretch of bed he'll have to cross. 

"Help me?" Harry's abdomen tenses as he sits up, not using either of his hands. Draco doesn't know why Harry's strength always surprises him, but it does. Even after months of shagging him senseless. Draco holds Harry steady as he slides up the mattress, wincing every few inches. 

"Are you certain this is a good idea?" Draco asks, suddenly worried. "I can wank--"

The look Harry gives him is sharp and a bit offended. "Draco, I swear to fucking God, if you don't ride my cock, I might actually sulk in disappointment. I was absolutely willing to use my hand until you put the option of your arse around my prick out there, so, yeah. It's a sodding good idea."

"You're an idiot," Draco says, but he gives Harry a fond look. "And your Healers will probably hex me."

"My Healers can fall off the bloody Dover cliffs for all I care." Harry settles himself against the pillows; Draco pushes another one behind him for a bit extra support. Harry slaps his bare thighs. "Now get your brilliant arse over here and fuck me, Draco Malfoy." He lets his shoulders sink back into the stack of pillows. "I want to feel that pretty prick of yours rubbing all over me until you pop."

Draco straddles Harry's thighs. "Such language, Inspector Potter." He lets his hands slip down Harry's chest. "Whatever would the _Prophet_ say?"

"Probably write an editorial about what a slag I am." Harry smiles at Draco, touches his face. "More fool them," he murmurs as his good hand slips behind Draco's neck, fingers tangling in Draco's half-dried hair. He pulls him closer, brushes his lips against Draco's. "The better story'd be how bloody mad I am about a certain blond Unspeakable."

"To-be," Draco says, and he kisses Harry, soft and warm, his mouth opening to Harry's tongue. When he pulls back, he smoothes Harry's hair back from his forehead. "You're still technically my Inspector."

Harry's mouth quirks up on one side. "Does that turn you on?"

Draco bites his lip, then smiles back. "Have I been fucking you for weeks?"

"You terrible pervert," Harry says, with a warm, affectionate laugh. His thumb strokes along the angle of Draco's jaw. "We'll have to find other ways to get you worked up then."

Draco shifts his hips forward, lets his prick slide against Harry's. "I think we could do that." He looks down at Harry, taking in Harry's faint stubble, the warm shine in Harry's eyes. Draco's knuckles drag lightly across Harry's cheek. "Merlin," Draco says, his voice barely a whisper. "I love you, Harry."

At that, Harry turns his head, kisses Draco's hand. "Show me," Harry says, and the words are a quiet huff against Draco's fingers. "Please."

It's almost too much. A shiver goes through Draco, and he bends his head forward, presses his forehead against Harry's. He breathes out. "Lube," he says finally, and Harry Summons it wordlessly, the prickle of non-verbal magic shimmering across Draco's skin. Harry hands the phial to Draco. 

Draco pours the thin liquid across his fingertips, leans back along Harry's thighs. Harry watches him, barely breathing, as Draco slicks himself up, twists his fingers deep into his already stretched hole. "You like that," Draco says, the words getting lost in small, quick gasps. "You like watching me fuck myself."

"I do." Harry swallows. "Christ, I do. Look at those fingers inside of you. Fuck, Draco…." He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, breathes out. "I love you so much," he says. "I'm so sorry--"

"No," Draco says and he pulls his hand from between his thighs. He pours more lube across his fingers, then slicks Harry's prick up, rubbing his thumb over Harry's swollen head, pushing his foreskin up then back again, just enough for Draco to work the tip of one finger into Harry's wet slit. "Don't be sorry. Not here. Not in this bed."

Harry just nods, exhales. His nipples are hard and tight; Draco leans in and licks one, revelling in the way Harry's body jerks at the drag of Draco's tongue. Draco strokes Harry's prick, his fingers tight around his shaft, just the way he knows Harry likes. It surprises him still, the way he knows Harry's body, the instinct he has now as to how Harry will react to a touch, to a nip. This is more than sex, more than fucking, more than a chance to get off with his very fit superior officer. Draco wants Harry to feel incredible, wants to see that lost, liquid look in Harry's eyes when he's seated deep in Draco's arse, wants to show Harry exactly how much he loves him. 

"Can you hold your prick for me?" Draco asks, and Harry nods, reaching between them with his left hand to hold his cock steady. Draco reaches for the headboard, balances himself, before letting himself sink down, the head of Harry's prick pressing against him. Even with the plug having loosened him up, it still takes a moment for Draco to relax enough for Harry to breach him. Draco grips the headboard, breathes out, then back in again as he slides himself further down, bit by tiny bit, his eyes closed, his fingers digging into the solid wood.

When he's fully seated, Draco exhales, lets himself relax around Harry's prick. He's missed this, missed feeling Harry inside of him. They haven't gone this long without fucking since May; they're nearly at the end of July. Draco would never have thought he'd need Harry Potter this much. But he does. He opens his eyes. 

Harry's watching him, his face soft. "Hey there," Harry says, and Draco smiles at him. "This is all right?"

"So very," Draco says. He doesn't want to move yet. He likes the feeling of Harry inside of him like this, likes being so close to him, likes how intimate this is. Draco lowers one of his hands to cup Harry's face, his fingers pushing back into Harry's dark hair. Harry's looking up at him as if Draco's the most beautiful man, as if he loves Draco. Worships him. Draco feels light, shivery, as if he owns the whole bloody world just because Harry Potter's looking at him that way. He lets his hand slide down Harry's throat, over Harry's chest. He wonders what he's done to deserve this. His Mark catches his eye, still dark and twisted across his scarred arm. They're so very different, he and Harry. It makes no damned sense sometimes. 

"What are you thinking?" Harry asks, and Draco looks back up at him. Harry's brows draw together. "Draco?"

Draco shakes his head at first. He doesn't want to admit it. But Harry doesn't look away, doesn't turn his head. He just watches Draco, steady and even, and somehow Draco finds himself asking, "How can a Death Eater like me be loved by a man like you?" 

Harry's good hand slips up, fingers carding through Draco's hair. "Oh, so bloody easily," Harry says, his voice almost a whisper. "And with all my goddamned heart, Draco Malfoy. Every sodding cell of it."

Draco closes his eyes again, rests his palm against Harry's heart. He can feel the soft thud of it against his skin. "Oh," he says, and then Harry's pulling him forward, kissing him, and it's rougher this time, not as gentle, a clash of teeth and tongues and mouths, and Draco's certain his heart is going to beat out of his chest, loud and staccato. 

"Fuck me," Harry says into Draco's breath. "Please, baby." And there's such open need in his voice, such obvious want, that Draco groans, rolls his hips forward, his prick pushed between their two bellies. 

He moves slowly at first, his hands still gripping the headboard for balance, and Harry's fingers dig into Draco's hip. The room feels warm, the air soft around Draco's body, almost as if the house itself is cushioning them, making it easier for Draco to slide up and then back down Harry's prick. Draco thinks he smells roses and lilacs, and he wants to laugh at first at the absurdity of the house, but then he looks down at Harry's face, at the way Harry is gazing up at him, his pupils wide and bright, his cheeks flushed, and Draco can barely breathe. 

Draco rides Harry, harder now, and he spreads his knees, lets Harry look down at the way his cock is pressing into Draco's arse, and Harry groans. 

"So fucking tight," Harry manages to say. Draco's head falls back; he holds onto the headboard with one hand, reaching back with the other to balance himself over Harry's thighs. It feels so good, impaling himself on Harry's prick, and he loves the wet slap of his cock against Harry's stomach. They're both gasping, groaning, and the bed's shaking beneath them, creaking with each slam of Draco's hips downward. 

And Draco doesn't think about anything but Harry, and the way Harry feels inside of him, and how hard his prick is, and how he wants to come so fucking badly, but he won't--not yet, not until Harry does. Harry grips Draco's hip tighter, and Draco can feel Harry's other hand pressing into the mattress beside them, his fingers brushing against Draco's calf. Draco's thighs burn with the effort of holding himself up, of pushing his arse down along Harry's prick. He knows Harry's shoulder is hurting, sharp and burning; he can feel it spark across the surface of his mind, and he slows a bit, worried. 

"Goddamn it, Draco," Harry says, loud and rough in the quiet of the room. "Don't. Fuck--" He pushes his hips up, rolls them against Draco's arse. "I need--"

Draco knows. He clenches himself around Harry's prick, moving faster, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He knows exactly when Harry falls over the edge, feels the tightness of Harry's thighs, the jerk of Harry's bollocks, the way Harry's whole body tenses just before he shouts, his head falling back, his mouth open and pink, and Merlin, he's bloody gorgeous when he comes like this, his spunk filling Draco's arse, slipping out with each press of Draco's body, slick and stick across Draco's skin. 

"Yes," Draco hisses, and he leans forward, his body still rocking into Harry's. "You beautiful bastard--"

Harry kisses him, reaches down between them, grabs Draco's prick with his left hand and pulls. It hurts at first, but Draco gives himself into it, and he presses his swollen, leaking cock into Harry's hand as he feels Harry slip out of his arse, softening. 

It's a stroke or two or twenty--Draco doesn't care, loses count. But his body shakes and trembles beneath Harry's touch, and Draco bites his lip, rocks forward into Harry's tight hand, a trickle of sweat rolling down his back, between his shoulder blades. 

"Come for me," Harry says against Draco's ear. "I want to see you fall apart--"

Draco cries out, arches forward, his body doing exactly what Harry asks of it. He shudders, jerks, and then his spunk is spattering across Harry's stomach, over his hand, and Draco's gasping, begging Harry not to stop because there's one last spasm---he shouts, his voice ringing out through the room, his whole body shaking, his knees pressed into the mattress, his hands tight around the edge of the headboard. 

He sinks forward, his body limp. Sated. He can barely feel Harry's kisses along the curve of his neck, can barely hear Harry's voice, whispering in his ear, telling him how good he's been, how amazing it was to watch him come like that. Harry's hand strokes down Draco's back, so featherlight until Draco slips back into his body and then it almost burns, and Draco shudders at the touch, slides away, rolls onto his side, breathing hard still. 

Slowly, his trembling stills. Harry slides down the pillows, curls himself up around Draco's back, his good arm draped over Draco's waist. Draco knows it can't be comfortable for him, but when Draco tries to move, Harry holds him down and says, "Stay still."

Draco does. 

They lie there together for a long moment, their breaths easing, slowing. The house settles around them, creaking in the eaves, the windows rattling just a bit. Harry presses his mouth to Draco's nape and nips, gently. 

"Better?" Harry asks, and Draco can't help but smile, even though Harry can't see it.

"Much." Draco shifts, turns towards Harry. He watches him, studies the way Harry's eyes flutter closed, the way Harry exhales. "I'm sorry I'm so difficult right now," Draco says, something hot and tight crossing his chest, and Harry turns his head and looks at him.

"You're not." Harry reaches for Draco's hand, threads his fingers through Draco's. "You're grieving."

Draco rolls onto his back, stares up at the ceiling. "It's hard," he says, and he feels the burn of wetness in his eyes again. He blinks it away, breathing out. "I'm angry, but I miss him."

"I know." Harry doesn't say anything for a moment, then he sighs. "I don't remember my parents well. If at all, really. Sometimes I think the few memories I have might just be dreams." He looks over at Draco again. "I can't imagine how hard it is for you, to have the memories and to lose your dad like this. I am sorry, love."

The endearment warms Draco, cracks something in his heart. He rolls over again, curls himself along Harry's side, rests his head on Harry's chest. He can hear Harry's heartbeat, feel the way Harry's fingers slip through his hair. "You make me feel safe," Draco says after a moment. "Like I can survive this."

Harry's hand stills for a moment, then he goes back to stroking Draco's hair. "I'm glad."

Draco's throat feels tight. He splays his fingers over Harry's stomach. They're long and pale across Harry's golden skin. "You have to be careful," Draco say after a moment. He tries to keep his voice even, but it still trembles a bit. "If I lost you too--" He breaks off, choking off a swell of fear. Grief. He swallows. "Promise me, Harry." He doesn't look up. 

Harry's silent, then he says, "I promise."

It's a lie. Both of them know it. It can't be otherwise, not in the career they've chosen. Harry can't be careful, not always. Neither can Draco. 

But Draco needs the fiction right now. Needs to believe that Harry will be safe, that someone like Dolohov won't take him down, that Harry can be invincible. 

"Thank you," Draco whispers, and Harry curls his fingers around Draco's, pulls them up to kiss them lightly. 

Together they lie sprawled across their bed, Grimmauld Place rustling and sighing around them, both of them silent, lost in their own fears, their own hopes. 

For now, it's everything Draco needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). (I'm taking asks there!)
> 
> Chapter Two of Dare To Think will be posted on Sunday, September 3!
> 
>  **Format note:** I'm going to post in 14 weekly installments this fall, with a release day of Sundays. This will help the team immensely in planning and also RL work (what is RL and why does it want to get in the way of mah fanfiction?)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Althea takes charge, Blaise destroys sugar quills, and Draco doesn't want to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been the week from hell IRL, and I'm so glad to have something to share with you tonight--there was one moment today when I wasn't certain that was going to happen, but I think I'm going to just barely make it here. 
> 
> I haven't quite combed the wilds of Scotland for soul grass or gone up against Dolohov in a warehouse in NY, but this bloody week has felt comparable. A million kisses to sassy-cissa for reading in the eleventh hour and to noeon for keeping everything else under control so I could write. We barely squeaked under the wire with this one, and it's taken an immense amount of effort to get us here, but I'm so, so thankful for the support.

Draco doesn't bloody well want to get up on Monday morning and go into the Ministry. He'd rather lie cocooned in the warmth of his and Harry's bed in Grimmauld Place, listening to the house settle around him, to the squeak of Kreacher's light tread on the staircase, to the soft rush of the shower from the en suite. He breathes out, tries to make himself give a damn, but he can't. Not really. 

He hasn't been back to his flat since Thursday night. Harry'd stayed home with him on Friday, sending a message to Althea that she'd be in charge for the day--and isn't that an odd feeling, Draco thinks, that he's already been replaced on Seven-Four-Alpha by Althea bloody Whitaker of all people. He doesn't entirely like it, but he also doesn't know how to protest his transfer. Or if he has the bloody energy to do so. Ironic, he thinks, given that he'd been thinking of doing the same only a month past. He knows this is for the best, knows that it means he and Harry could eventually be public with their relationship if they choose to. There'll be raised eyebrows and whispers amongst the rest of the force if they do so, and the rumours would all likely be true. 

But he and Harry haven't talked about that part of things. Not yet at least. That's another thing Draco doesn't want to do right now. This is all still too new in a way, everything between them, and he's not certain he even likes their friends knowing. Draco feels vulnerable and exposed and raw, and as much as he needs to wrap himself in Harry, to know Harry's beside him, ready to hold Draco close, that longing also feels like a terrible weakness. 

The shower shuts off in the en suite. Draco buries his face in the soft press of his pillow, letting his hair tumble across his cheek. If he looks like he's sleeping, maybe Harry will leave him be. 

Croaker's owl had come at half-eight last night, wide grey wings slapping against the library windows until Harry had opened them. It'd dropped the tightly wound scroll in Harry's hand, then flown out again, not bothering to wait for a reply. Why would it, after all? Croaker's neatly spiky handwriting had demanded--pleasantly and politely, of course--that Draco join him in his office at half-nine in the morning to discuss his future with the Department of Mysteries. 

His future. As if Draco has any goddamned bloody choice in the matter. 

Draco burrows deeper beneath the duvet. The cotton feels good against his bare skin. He's barely worn clothes for the past two days. Nothing more than a pair of joggers at least, and that only when Harry's convinced him to crawl out of bed to go downstairs for food. His arse is sore; his body aches. He's begged Harry to shag him, to keep him from thinking, to keep those feelings that threaten to overwhelm him at bay. Draco'd known it couldn't last. That Harry would have to go back to work eventually, and so would he. Draco doesn't want to, and that's an odd feeling. Work's been everything to him for eight years now. If he'd been offered this transfer to the Unspeakables six months ago, he'd have jumped at the chance. Positions in the Department of Mysteries rarely come open. Not without a death. 

Although he supposes there's been one, hasn't there? Phoebe Rayne. Draco wonders what her family must be going through. She has a husband, he knows; he'd looked it up last week in her _Prophet_ obituary. A husband and an eleven-year-old son. Almost ready for Hogwarts, and what will his first year be like, Draco wonders. Missing his mother. Angry at the world. 

Draco's heart aches. He exhales again, his breath stirring the strands of hair that have fallen across his mouth. They tickle, catching on his lips chapped from Harry's kisses. The feelings twist through him again, sharp and biting, a knife-wound of grief that refuses to heal. 

He misses his father. It's odd to think that. For years, Draco's half-believed that when this day came, when his father had finally shuffled off this mortal coil, he'd dance on Lucius's grave. He doesn't want to. He wonders what he'd say to his father if he saw him again. If he had one last moment. If he'd only known the last time he talked to Lucius that he'd never have another chance. Would he have done anything differently?

Honestly, Draco doesn't know. 

The floorboards creak beside the bed. Draco closes his eyes, pretends to be asleep. Harry's hand settles on Draco's hip, warm and heavy through the duvet. 

"You're going to be late," Harry says quietly. 

Draco doesn't answer. 

"Love," Harry says. His hand smoothes up Draco's side, over the length of his waist. He leans over, presses a kiss to Draco's jaw. A drop of water falls from Harry's still wet hair, hits Draco's cheek. Draco tries not to flinch, but he can't help himself. Harry's laugh is soft. "I know you're awake."

"Fuck off," Draco mumbles, but Harry's mouth is moving along the curve of his neck, teeth nipping lightly. Draco sighs and rolls onto his back, looking up at Harry. "I don't want to go in."

Harry's in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. "I know." He leans against the side of the bed, his bad arm pressed against his chest. Draco doesn't think he's gone into the Healers yet. That'll be something to argue about when Draco's not so bloody exhausted, he thinks. Harry's knuckles stroke along Draco's cheek. "It'll be good for you though."

Draco thinks that's bollocks. "Maybe," he says, and he rubs his hands over his face. He smells like sweat and sex and spunk, and he's in desperate need of a shower. Harry's palm smoothes over his chest, and Draco huffs a soft breath, looking over at Harry. "We could stay in bed all day."

"We could." Harry's face is regretful. "But Gawain'll have my bollocks if I'm not in today." He curls his fingers around Draco's wrist and helps him sit up. "Go shower. I'll have Kreacher make you breakfast."

"I'm not hungry." Draco knows he sounds petulant as he swings his feet over the edge of the bed. He scowls as he stands. "Just coffee."

For a moment he thinks Harry's going to protest, but Harry just hesitates, then nods, looking away from Draco as he moves towards his chest of drawers. "I'll get dressed and meet you downstairs."

Draco pads into the en suite, still frowning. He turns the shower on, then takes a quick piss, glancing over at himself in the mirror as he does. He looks pale and worn out, his hair dirty, touselled and sex-tangled, and there are love bites across his shoulders, down his neck. Draco won't bother to spell them away; he doesn't really give a fuck if Croaker sees them. 

The water from the shower is still warm. Draco soaps himself up with his favourite citron verbena soap, inhaling its sharp, bright scent as the steam and spray swirl around him. He can't remember the last time he showered. Thursday perhaps, or Wednesday morning before the funeral. A shudder of pain goes through him at that thought, and he leans one shoulder against the wet, cool tile, breathing in the lemony mist of water. His wet hair falls forward, sticks to his cheeks. Draco closes his eyes, fights back the hot prickle of tears, his shoulders tightening. His whole body feels tense, taut, and all he can do is stand still beneath the warm spray, waiting for that spasm of grief to pass. 

It does, and he feels himself relax, suddenly even more tired than before, his body almost unable to hold itself upright. Draco wants to sit in the tub, lift his face up to the shower and let the water wash over him. Instead he manages to rinse the soap off him, to lather up his hair and wash it clean.

Draco stands in front of the mirror for five minutes afterwards, just staring at himself. He doesn't know why. It just seems too difficult to move, to put one foot in front of the other. The steam on the mirror dissipates slowly, revealing Draco's thin, pale body, his lank, wet hair, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the spot on the bridge of his nose, tiny and red. He looks like shit, Draco thinks almost dispassionately, and then he reaches out and wipes his palm across the mirror, smearing what's left of the steam into small, uneven droplets before he turns away. 

He dresses. A pair of dark grey trousers and a white shirt, drawn from where Kreacher had hung them in the new dressing room. He chooses a moonstone grey tie and braces. He doesn't care what he looks like today, but he won't embarrass Harry. Of that he's determined. His black brogues are polished, and he slips them on. The last time he'd worn them had been Wednesday at the Manor, Draco thinks. It's another twist of his stomach that he does his best to ignore as he pulls from its hanger the neatly tailored suit jacket that matches his trousers.

Harry's in the kitchen when Draco comes downstairs, in black trousers and red braces, his hair still damp around the ends, his arm in a clean white sling. He's made coffee, and he hands Draco a cup silently. There's a plate of toast nearby, butter smeared thickly across its brown surface, and Draco takes a triangle. Tries to eat it for Harry's sake. He knows Harry's watching, even though Harry's pretending he's more interested in the _Prophet._ Draco glances at the front page. There's another article about the Death Eater Registry, Griselda Marchbanks' photo up above the fold. 

His father won't have to worry about that any longer, Draco thinks, and his toast sticks in his throat. He sets the remainder of the piece down, turns away, coughs. 

"All right?" Harry asks, and Draco knows he's trying not to look too closely, trying to give Draco enough space to just _be_. He wants to tell Harry how much it means to him that he's being careful with Draco, but the words won't come. Not with Marchbanks staring at him from across the table.

"How are the Quidditch tables?" Draco asks instead, and he's relieved when Harry folds the paper, hiding the front page as he turns to sport.

They eat. Draco mostly sips his coffee and listens to Harry tell him about Puddlemere's rise to the top of the league after the Pride's most recent loss. The warm drone of Harry's voice is comforting, soothing Draco's jangled nerves as he watches Harry dip his toast soldiers into a runny egg. The sight makes Draco's stomach flip a little, and he pretends to nibble on the angles of his toast. He can't eat much. Doesn't want to, not really. He thinks Harry notices, but Harry doesn't say anything. Draco's glad. He can't tolerate an argument right now. 

When Harry finishes eating, he sets the paper aside, then drains the dregs of his coffee cup. "Are you ready?" he asks Draco.

Not in the least, Draco wants to say, but instead he shrugs, with a sideways glance at his jacket hanging on the back of the side chair, Croaker's letter tucked in the front pocket. "As much as I'll ever be," he says finally, and he stands up, picks up the plate filled with crumbs and bits of torn toast rolled into smushed, buttery balls, and carries it to the sink. Kreacher will wash it later. 

He feels the house around him, almost as if the very walls are turning towards him, doing everything they can to hold him inside, to keep him here. Draco wants to give in, wants to stay inside the comfort of Grimmauld Place, but he knows he can't.

Knows he shouldn't. 

It's time to face the outside world again, whether or not he wants to. He can see it in the way Harry glances at him, a faintly worried frown between his brows. Draco takes a deep breath and reaches for his jacket. "Let's go," he says finally, and he turns away from Harry. He can't bear to see the look of pity on Harry's face.

They Floo into the Ministry. Draco doesn't look at anyone as he steps out of the green flames. He keeps his back ramrod straight, his gaze fixed firmly forward. This is the first time he's ventured out into the wizarding world since they'd Portkeyed back from New York, other than going to McIntyre and Mackenzie's and his father's funeral, of course. He doesn't want to hear the platitudes, the condolences, or the anger even. They'll all scrape across his already raw soul, make Draco desperately uncomfortable. He misses his anonymity in the Auror force, the way everyone wanted to look away from him, to let their gaze drift past him. Those days are over now. Draco recognises that, and he wants to curse his father; even in his death, Lucius has found a way to make his son the one to suffer for his own bloody sins. 

"You'll be fine," Harry murmurs from behind him, and Draco feels the quick press of Harry's hand against the small of his back before it's gone. He looks back over his shoulder at Harry, gives him a faint smile. 

"I wish I were going upstairs with you," Draco admits. It feels strange to stand in the middle of the atrium with Harry, the flood of the morning's Ministry workers starting to trickle off. They get a few curious looks, and Draco tenses. Steps away from Harry. 

Harry frowns. "This is bollocks, you know." He's not happy about the whole Unspeakable situation. Draco's fully aware of that. They've talked about it a little, over the weekend, arguing about whether or not it's worth it to fight Croaker, to push back against Robards. _I'm too sodding tired,_ Draco had told Harry last night, and it's true. But it's not all of it. Draco doesn't want to be the one to destroy Harry Potter's reputation, to be the one Harry's career might implode over. His past self would think him bloody mad, he knows, and perhaps he is.

Draco wants to lean in and kiss the bow of Harry's mouth, to tangle his fingers in Harry's hair and rut up against him until they're both breathless and hard in the middle of the goddamned Ministry. Instead he shifts on his feet and says, "We haven't a choice."

Really, Harry doesn't look convinced. "I suppose." He rubs his slinged arm, almost absently, and Draco knows it must be hurting him. Harry thinks Draco doesn't realise he's taking a reduced dose of his pain potions. Draco's not that much of a fool, but he's worried that if he shouts at Harry, the idiot'll just stop taking them at all. Harry's too worried about Draco, about being available for him, about being coherent even. 

It's ridiculous, Draco thinks, the way they're tiptoeing around each other. 

"Go on with you," Draco says after a moment. He doesn't want Harry to walk away from him. His satchel's heavy across his chest, the thick strap of it feeling as if it's strangling Draco, cutting off his breath. He exhales, then adds, "If I need you, I'll find you. I promise."

Harry hesitates, nods. "See you tonight?" he asks, and when Draco nods, Harry says, too quietly for anyone but Draco to hear, "I love you."

Warmth floods Draco's entire body. "You're a twat." He can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Whom I might be fond of as well." He takes another step away from Harry, all too conscious of the looks they're starting to draw, standing here so closely together under the watchful eyes of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Draco doesn't want to leave Harry, doesn't want to go down into the dark shadows of the unknown. He doesn't like the way his life's changing, twisting, turning in on itself in ways Draco can't control. He wants to be walking back into their incident room at Harry's side, wants to drop his satchel on his desk, wants to be mocking Pansy and Blaise and, fuck, even bloody Althea. 

Instead he takes a deep breath and moves away. "Later, Potter," he says, letting his voice rise a little louder, and then he's turning, walking away from Harry, his footsteps ringing out in the quiet of the near-empty Atrium. 

When he glances back over his shoulder, Harry's still standing there, watching him, his face shuttered, inscrutable. 

Draco squares his shoulders and turns away, heading for the stairs that will take him down to the Department of Mysteries. His heart's pounding in his chest; his mouth tastes metallic; he can't seem to keep his hands from shaking. He wipes his palms against his trousers, staring down the winding staircase, each step wide and shallow, and then he takes the first one, making his way down into the shadowed depths of the Ministry. 

The black marble lobby of the Department of Mysteries is empty. Silent. Draco had at least expected someone to be waiting for him.

Slowly Draco pushes open the heavy, carved black wooden door at the end of the lobby. He's surprised when it swings open, easily even, nearly crashing against the wall behind it. He steps into the empty hallway beyond, all black marble tiled walls and floor, faint glimmers of light from the sconces above, glinting against the dark stone. 

"Hello?" Draco's voice echoes in the hallway. Fucking Unspeakables, he thinks, as he moves further down the corridor. It opens up onto a circular area, the black marble floor as thick and as shining as a pool of standing water. Draco's almost afraid to step on it, not certain that his brogues won't slide straight through the gleaming stone. He does, though, and the floor's solid. Draco breathes out, looking around him. Twelve black doors surround the room, each of them looking like the ones beside it. Draco pivots on his heel, and when he does, he realises the corridor behind him is gone, replaced by one of the doors. 

"Right." Draco walks out into the middle of the room, where the bronze of the Ministry seal gleams faintly in the gloam of the floor beneath him. "Croaker!"

There's no answer. Draco's panic is starting to rise when the doors suddenly shift, spinning around him, almost dizzying until they slow, then still. The farthest door to his right swings open, and the shadows beyond are almost as dark as the door itself. The sconces on the walls flicker a pale blue-white flame that grows stronger as Draco hears footsteps approaching. 

And then Granger's stepping out, her ivory sheath dress bright against the shadows. Her hair is pulled back into a thick pouf of curls at the top of her head; her brown legs are taut and elegant in a pair of ivory heels. "Malfoy," she says, and she's not smiling. "You're late."

It takes everything Draco has not to glance at his watch. "Only by a few minutes."

"Punctuality's important to Saul," she says, and she gestures for him to follow her back through the doorway. Draco does, but he's hesitant. He wonders if he'll ever get used to this place. 

The hallway here is dark panelled wood, stained nearly ebony, and the black marble still gleams beneath his feet. "Where are you taking me?" Draco asks after a moment. He's never been into this part of the department. He's curious about the doors they're passing, some of them marked with large silver numbers. 

"Saul's office." Granger looks at him as if he's lost his damned mind. Draco's not certain he hasn't. She's silent for a moment, then she says, "It's not the worst thing in the world for you to join us, you know."

Draco doesn't reply. He doesn't know that he needs to, really; he just gives her a long, even look, and she glances away. 

They stop in front of a tall door, just as carved and heavy-looking as the first one Draco had passed through. Granger raises a thick, iron door knocker and lets it fall with a loud, solid boom. The door swings open. 

Draco doesn't know what he expects, but it's not the simple office room filled with desk furniture from what appears to be the standard Ministry ordering form. His head aches; he thinks about turning tail and running away. 

He doesn't. He takes a deep breath and steps in after Granger, feet sinking into a thick ivory carpet.

Saul Croaker looks up from where he's standing in front of a long row of dark wooden bookcases, each shelf filled with a row of thick leather-bound volumes. Draco can make out _Thought_ , _Love_ , _Death,_ and _Time_ engraved in silver over and over again along the black spines. "Sergeant Malfoy," Croaker says. "So glad you chose to join us."

"I wasn't aware there was a choice involved," Draco says. He takes one of the wide leather armchairs in front of a spindle-legged desk that Croaker gestures towards. Granger settles beside Draco in the other one, giving him a small, tight smile. 

"Perhaps not," Croaker says after a moment. He sits behind the desk, his hands folded in front of him, his thick white hair a bushy halo around his head. "But in a way, there are, wouldn't you say? Each choice we make moves us in a new direction, takes us down a path that perhaps we might not have ever anticipated. You made choices that have directly led you to sit in this office today, whether or not you felt an obligation to attend to my request that you join us."

Draco just looks at him, waiting. 

Croaker's smile widens. "You're a talented Legilimens, Sergeant Malfoy."

"So I've been told." Draco folds his arms across his chest. "But I'm certain you didn't call me in here to tell me that. You want me as an Unspeakable."

"I have you as an Unspeakable," Croaker says, amusement tingeing his voice. "It's a mere formality at the moment."

Draco raises his chin. "I haven't agreed to anything."

"But you will." Croaker leans forward in his chair. His gaze flicks towards Granger, then back to Draco. "I'm offering you a position of Unspeakable, Second Rank. Your base salary will be what, Granger? Double what the Aurors are paying Sergeant Malfoy at the moment?"

And that surprises Draco. It's not that money's important to him, except it is. Money equates to power, to feeling as if one's work is valued, respected. Draco tries to sit still, but his fingers twitch against the arms of the chair. Draco's certain Croaker notices. 

"Close enough," Granger says. She looks over at Draco. "Along with the usual benefits. Pension, life insurance--"

"All that dull bollocks," Croaker says. His eyes are sharp and bright and fixed on Draco. "You have a skill, Sergeant Malfoy, that I'm very willing to pay for. We'll train you in Legilimency, allow you to pursue any outside professional development you wish. I understand you've already begun with Jake Durant--"

Draco frowns. "Only the basics."

Croaker's watching him, a faint smile on his face. "Which you picked up in a matter of days. Most other Legilimens take a six-month course to develop their skills to the point yours are at naturally."

Heat spreads across Draco's cheeks. "I'm not that good."

"But you are." Croaker shifts in his chair, tilts his head ever so slightly. "I'm not a fickle man, Sergeant. If I'm sitting here offering you this deal, it's because I think you have a talent unlike any I've ever seen. And I want you at Her Majesty's magical service."

The room's silent for a long moment, and then Granger says, "Your contract would be backdated." She looks at Draco, and he frowns, catching the intensity of her gaze. "To Harry's return in May. It would supercede any employment documentation currently on file with the Ministry, officially erasing your assignment to Seven-Four-Alpha." 

That makes Draco sit up, his stomach twisting at the thought of losing that assignment on his record. He doesn't want that. And yet he's not fool enough not to see the benefits of the arrangement. "May." His gaze flicks towards Granger. She doesn't look away. "So two months of back pay at my Unspeakable rate?"

Granger's mouth quirks to one side. "Yes."

Some might see it as a bribe of sorts. Perhaps it is. But Draco understands what they're offering him. Protection in case he and Harry want to come forward with their relationship. Done so that if the _Prophet_ came after them, they'd find no impropriety. Not without digging a bit deeper than they might wish to. 

Croaker watches him. "You'd keep him safe," he says quietly. "And yourself as well."

"I won't give him up," Draco says after a moment. "If I come on board with you lot. There'd be nothing to keep me from being with him. Openly if I wish." He glances at Granger, and she nods, a look of something that might be relief flitting over her face. Draco turns, meets Croaker's gaze evenly. "I want that clear."

"Nor would I expect you to." Croaker leans back in his chair, crosses one ankle over his knee. Those eyes of his are quick, Draco realises. They can sift through Draco's thoughts with just the barest whisper of a Legilimens behind them. "I'm not asking you to stop shagging Potter. I frankly don't give a damn who you fuck as long as you do your job."

Draco hesitates, then says, "Which would be?"

Croaker's smile widens even further, bright and white and filled with teeth. "Anything I bloody ask of you, Sergeant. Within the strange and arcane twists and turns of British wizarding law, of course."

"There are a few grey areas we sometimes exploit," Granger admits, and it surprises Draco to hear the poster girl of Gryffindor admit that. At his raised eyebrow, she shrugs. "One does what one must for national security."

"I have my limits," Draco says, his voice flat. "Things I won't do." Nothing that will hurt Harry, he thinks, and he doesn't care if Croaker picks that up.

"Which we will take into account," Croaker says. He studies Draco's face. "You needn't be concerned."

But Draco is. There's something inside of him that's screaming at him to stand up, to walk out of this room, to refuse to give them any part of himself. And yet the curious, studious part of him wants to know what Saul Croaker has to teach him. Wants to train his mind in ways Durant could only begin to suggest to him. 

"I'll also consider allowing you to cross department boundaries," Croaker says after a moment. "Should there be moments when we would like to work with the Auror force in an official capacity."

"Including with Seven-Four-Alpha," Granger says, and when Draco gives her a sharp look, she shrugs. "I think that might be necessary for our mutual benefit. I saw the way your team worked together, after all."

Croaker laughs, a low, throaty rumble that shakes his shoulders a bit. "So she insisted I agree to that." He leans on his elbows. "I'm not opposed to it. Our Unspeakables can be a bit more…" He hesitates, then says, "Unorthodox in the way we conduct our business."

Draco bloody well thinks they might be. 

"So what say you, Draco?" Croaker asks. "Trade in your sergeant's bars for Unspeakable robes?"

It takes a moment, but Draco finally nods. What else can he do? Robards and Croaker have manipulated this for their own benefit, he's aware, but it was only a matter of time. Particularly after Harry stupidly, brilliantly decided to defy the Head Auror to his bloody face. And it was never Harry they were going to fuck over, was it? Draco's the expendable one in the Auror force. "I'll sign the paperwork," Draco says, his voice low. Something tight and hot constricts his chest. 

Croaker looks far too bloody pleased with himself. "Excellent. Granger will get you started." He reaches for a quill before glancing Granger's way. "Arrange for him to start Legilimency training with Burke first thing tomorrow." He looks at Draco. "We'll have you ready for study at Tirésias before you know it."

Draco doesn't doubt it. 

Granger stands, motioning for Draco to come with her. "You'll need robes for formal occasions," she says. "And second-rank stripes. That's as close as we can approximate your sergeant's rank. Our second-rank would also include the rank of inspector for the Aurors. First-rank Unspeakable is comparable to Chief Inspector in the Auror force, third-rank to the constabulary and trainees." 

All of this feels surreal to Draco. He doesn't know how he's ended up here; he feels lost without Harry by his side. But he knows enough about the Unspeakables to realise this is a part of his life he can't share with his boyfriend. Not to any great extent. He wonders what that will change for them, if the secrets he'll be asked to keep will drive a wedge between him and Harry.

But once again, what choice does he have? 

And if Draco's honest with himself, he wants to be a Legilimens, wants to foster that talent he hadn't known he has. Draco's never felt strong, never felt like he had something other than his name that made him special. He'd worked hard for his marks in school; he knows he's not a fool. But Legilimency is something that's his, something that's untainted by his father's idiocy, by the mistakes Lucius had forced upon his family over the years. 

Draco knows he could be a good Legilimens. Perhaps even a great one. 

And maybe then, his mind whispers, he'd be worthy of someone like Harry. Someone powerful. Someone who commands respect the way Harry does. 

Draco craves that for himself. Is desperate to be seen as someone other than a former Death Eater. His hand settles over his Mark. Croaker notices. 

"That means nothing to me," Croaker says, his voice soft. "That Mark of yours. It doesn't define who you are. Not as an Unspeakable. There are quite a few of us who have our own secrets, Sergeant Malfoy, who carry our own burdens. No one within these walls will judge you for that one foolish mistake."

Really, Draco thinks, that's a load of bollocks. His gaze flicks towards Granger, standing by the door. She bloody well judges him for it, he's certain. But she's also protected him. For Harry's sake, at least. 

He stands. "Thank you," he says, and then he adds, belatedly, "Sir."

Croaker just smiles. It's thin and fierce and feral. "We're glad to have you on board." He meets Draco's gaze evenly. "You'll make a damned fine Unspeakable, won't he, Granger?"

"I'm certain he will," Granger says. She opens the door. "If you'll follow me, Malfoy?"

For a brief moment, Draco hesitates. The moment he steps through that door, his whole bloody life will change. He knows that. They all do. He'll no longer be an Auror. That's all he's known for the past eight years. It's the career he thought he'd pension out on. 

Draco's never been good with change, and here he is, standing on a precipice, overlooking a wide gulf. His life is in a state of flux, of transmutation, and Draco's terrified. 

"Malfoy?" Granger says, and there's a gentleness to her voice that he doesn't expect, as if she knows what he's feeling. 

Perhaps, in a way, she does. 

Draco takes a deep breath and, his hands shaking, follows her out, his choice made. 

He clenches his fists. Circe, but he hopes it's the right one.

***

It's a properly shit Monday morning, and the whole of Seven-Four-Alpha's in a bit of a strop in Blaise's opinion. They're all sat awkwardly in the incident room--save for the guv himself--not speaking as the clock on the wall counts down to their usual morning meeting time.

9:27 and the clock ticks on. 

Blaise glances over at Althea. She looks bloody well tired. Her face's grim and drawn, and she's not said a word since she nodded to Blaise when he came in. She's slouched at the desk near the corner, long legs spread out, her dark hair plaited into a braid coiled at the nape of her neck. It makes her look sixteen. Althea taps her quill against the desktop and stares at the door, almost certainly wondering what they all are: will the guv be in today? 

Althea'd been in charge of the team on Friday, had even met with Robards to discuss the reports from MACUSA and their experience with the Death Eater networks there. The guv had owled in ill, and Robards had come down to tell them they'd be on their own. He hadn't been best pleased, but nothing untoward had been said directly. To be honest, Blaise thinks Potter should never have been so sodding obvious at this early a juncture, but he supposes that Draco being transferred to the Unspeakables will cover whatever charges of professional misconduct might be brought from now on. Still, it'd been terribly blatant of the guv to be absent two days after Lucius' funeral, and Blaise's feeling a bit grim himself about the future of their team.

Robards had been _viciously_ unhappy, after all. 

Still, Blaise supposes Althea's mood could also be something with her dad when he thinks about it. He knows that things are difficult with her father's health, that she's worried about him, even though they're back, but he doesn't dare ask her outright, of course. They're not that familiar. Not yet at least. Seven-Four-Alpha does have the tendency to blow through bloody boundaries, however. It's the nature of the work to some extent; one always starts to know the intricacies of one's teammates' lives. But their team is a bit different even so. Blaise thinks it's the web of history behind them. Eventually Althea's will be interwoven as well. 

Pansy's sat at the desk closest to the door, nursing a large cup of coffee with a bitter scowl. She's likely furious with and simultaneously missing Goldstein, from what Blaise surmises, and she must be concerned about Eustace's upcoming trial in the States and what might be uncovered there. That whole business with the Tarrytown warehouse could affect her family adversely, particularly should MACUSA decide to share information with the Ministry, but Blaise hasn't had opportunity to talk to her yet. Privately, at least. Work's no place for a conversation like that, and Blaise hasn't had a night to go down the pub with her since they've been back in London. He's been too busy taking care of his own family, and in all honesty, he wishes his mother would go back to the Continent and drag his terrifying and imperious grandfather with her. They're driving him both mad. At least he'd managed to get his mother back into the Beaumont and out of his bedroom this weekend. Friday night he'd finally slept well for the first time since he'd come back from New York.

And, speaking of New York, there's Blaise's own rather unfortunate fixation on a tall, bloody gorgeous Unspeakable with a delicious Louisiana accent. Blaise's unsettled by his complete inability to get out of his mind Jake's cut prick and the impossibly debauched, glorious nature of what Blaise had done with Jake during that last weekend in New York--or let Jake do to him, really, if Blaise is honest. Blaise misses the wide, rumpled bed at the Millenium Hilton, misses the weight of Jake's long body over his, Jake's thick cock plowing deep inside him, misses the wrung out feeling of being fucked over and over again, of coming hard, in what felt like an endless series of intersections of their bodies until he couldn't tell where his own body stopped and Jake's began. 

Of course, that's old news now, isn't it? Blaise hasn't heard from Jake since a quick text exchange on his second day back in London and really, he knows this is how the story ends. He's done it himself, more than once. It's not anything more than a one-night stand, even if it had stretched to four brilliant, sweaty nights spread out across his hotel bed, the sheets twisting beneath their gasping bodies. To hope for anything more is a delusion, and Blaise doesn't practice intentional self-deception. He knows that Jake was an itch that he scratched. That's all. If he's fortunate, perhaps Jake'll look him up if he comes to London, give him another chance at brilliant shag in Blaise's own bed. Still, Blaise had spent the past weekend wanking himself raw at night, looking at the photos of Jake on his phone. He doesn't want to admit he misses the arsehole, but he does.

Now Blaise's sucking on the end of his second sugar quill even though it's not even half-nine, rocking back on the back legs of his chair whilst Pansy's gripping her coffee tightly, swilling it with a certain bad-tempered cloud about her that only Pansy can manage. Blaise recognises it from Slytherin common room. He hopes nothing sets her off further--Pans can be vicious when she's out of sorts, and Blaise hasn't seen her quite this bad since she'd fought with Camilla about her Yule Ball attire in their fourth year. 

Althea frowns and taps her quill lightly against the table, a soft repetitive click that only becomes louder as the minutes tick by. 

The long hand of the clock hits 9:29. Still no guv. His office is dark; there's no jacket hung over the hook in the corner. 

"Is he coming, do you think?" Pansy asks, a frown between her brows. 

Althea shrugs. "He hasn't owled." She sounds unhappy. Blaise doesn't blame her. She's the one who'll be in Robards' cross-fire if Potter decides not to show up again.

Just as the clock ticks over to 9:32, the incident room door swings opens, and Potter walks through, his arm still in a sling, a scowl on his face. Blaise's heart leaps a bit to see him, his sense of what they're doing here in this close, stuffy room restored. And if Potter's in a fierce temper, well, it's only fitting given the general mood of the team, Blaise thinks. Potter stops to hang his jacket on the hook beside the door, then walks over and drops his things on the empty desk at the front--the one that had once been Draco's. He turns and frowns at them all. "Sorry I'm late." 

He doesn't look sorry, Blaise thinks. He looks upset. And Potter has half-healed love bites on his neck, faintly purple and yellow above the edge of his collar. Draco's a bit of a biter--everyone'd complained about it at school, and if Blaise didn't know better, he might wonder at times if Draco's hasn't got a bit of a vampire heritage, what with the messes he makes of people's necks.

The guv doesn't seem to care, though. 

"Glad you're here," Althea says tersely. She sits up, and the frowns she gives Potter is fierce. "Friday was a bit of a wash."

Potter shrugs his left shoulder, then winces a bit, his hand going over to his injured arm. "Thanks for taking charge. How did it go with Gawain?"

Althea scrubs her hands over her face and sighs. "Not much to say, really. Robards wanted to know about New York, so we went over the raid and Brighton Beach and the leads we'd been able to scratch at. He's chuffed at the Dolohov capture, I can tell you that much. Wanted a proper blow-by-blow." 

She has the courtesy to glance over at Blaise, and he feels his cheeks warm. He glances down at his desk, trying not to smile. That just doesn't seem done. He can't help himself, though. Blaise still can't believe he got credit for that collar, can't believe he's the one who helped bring Dolohov to justice. It'd felt an eternity at the time, but over so quickly. Althea'd mentioned on Friday that Robards might be weighing some sort of commendation for him, but Blaise doesn't dare get his hopes up. He fixes his eyes forward again, on the guv.

Potter winces. "I owe him a report on that. I'd promised him it'd be on his desk Friday, but well…" He trails off, not finishing the sentence, and Blaise bloody well knows the guv hasn't a good excuse for that. Instead of working, Potter's been off shagging Draco all bloody weekend, which, really, Blaise shouldn't be so bitter about, but he is. If Blaise has to work and honour family obligations and not get fucked sideways across every surface in his flat, then no one else should have any joy either. He envies Draco that, he truly does, even with the murder of Draco's father. It makes him a shit friend, he supposes. Then again, Blaise hasn't ever known his father, so perhaps Draco has that on him.

"I'm sure Draco's most grateful," Pansy says from the corner, and yeah, Blaise almost forgets sometimes that her praise can be worse than her blame.

The pained look Potter shoots her speaks volumes, and Blaise almost feels sorry for the guv, but then, yeah, oh, wait, there's that bit about available cock and arse and getting to bugger someone senseless, and, really, Blaise has no pity at all. Potter can go hang. He deserves to, honestly, for everything he and Draco have done, and Blaise can't figure out why it hasn't happened yet. 

Except it's Potter, so of course the bastards in charge won't touch him of course. 

"In any case," Potter's cough is awkward, his eyes trailing over each of their stony faces in turn. Only Althea looks a bit sympathetic, and Blaise knows that Ravenclaws haven't got the bollocks for proper seething resentment. Unlike Slytherins. "We need to get started on building our case now that we're back, yeah? What did Gawain say about our next steps?"

"He didn't, really." Althea scratches lightly at her neck, under her collar. "He just asked us to document everything from the States. Said he'd talk to you about the rest when you were back in the office."

That's not entirely what Robards had said, Blaise knows. Althea'd been a bit more precise in her quote on Friday. There'd been less _back in the office_ and a bit more _when he pulls his sodding arse together and does his fucking job._ But none of them are going to say that to the guv, now are they?

"Well, what have we got?" Potter looks over at Blaise, who raises an eyebrow.

"Not bloody much," Blaise says finally, taking pity on the guv. It really won't help solve his own sexual frustration to torment his boss. "We've got the raid we captured Dolohov in, the Brighton Beach connections, and yeah, the Old Man."

Pansy clears her throat, drawing the eyes of the room to her. "Not to mention my fucking brother-in-law and his bloody stupid shipment of Death Eater arms." She scowls at them all, then lifts her coffee cup back to her lips.

"And Dimitri Godunov," Althea adds. "We can't forget him, even though nothing stuck. Then there's Aldric Yaxley's connection to Graves and Quahog that Malfoy witnessed."

Blaise is half-certain he imagines the shadow that crosses Pansy's face at the mention of Godunov's name. Perhaps he's mistaken, he thinks, but he marks it down mentally for further investigation. He doesn't think Pans would have been so stupid to have shagged a known arms dealer, as charming as he might have been. Particularly with Goldstein around. But her father _is_ Terry Parkinson, and Blaise's pretty sure he's in the business end somewhere in this affair. Probably up to his neck, given their current luck, and Blaise wants to put his head in his hands and bemoan the idiocies of all their parents. At least his father had the decency to get offed long before Blaise became an Auror. Although Merlin only knows what skeletons are rattling about in his family closet. Bad enough he's got his grandfather's reputation to deal with. 

Thank Circe Seven-Four-Alpha has Althea. At the moment she's their only unblemished member. Blaise eyes her, hopes she doesn't cock anything up.

"Right," Potter turns to look at the board. "So let's start blocking out what we have, then divvy up who's going to take point on the different reports."

"We might be able to do a better search here in London for Yaxley's daughter," Blaise says. "And whomever got her up the duff. Family and other connections might be a good place to begin." He remembers belatedly, shooting Althea a quick smile. "Well. Present company excepted of course."

Althea holds up her hands, palms out in surrender. "No need to exclude anyone on my account." She gives him an even look. "I'm willing to delve into my family history if need be."

Blaise realises she means it, and he wonders for a moment if Althea shouldn't perhaps have sorted Gryffindor. But still, she shows too much cunning, forethought, and tact for that, he reasons. Ravenclaws are almost as subtle as Slytherins, if they can stop bloody revising for everything.

"The Malfoys were social with the Yaxleys before and during the wars," Pansy says over the rim of her coffee cup. "So shouldn't Draco also give a statement?" Her lips are a wicked, pink curve, almost as pink as the blush that stains Potter's neck. "You know, to help, ah, thicken the case, or what have you." The look she gives Potter is slyly innocent. It's clear to Blaise she's picked up on Potter's weekend activities as well. Neither of them have spoken to Draco since the funeral; he's been too wrapped up in Potter to return their calls.

Blaise is a bit annoyed by that fact as well. And if Draco doesn't talk to him soon, Blaise is going to just show up in the Floo at Grimmauld Place or wherever the bloody fuck Draco's hiding out and shout until Draco actually lets him through. It's not fair, Blaise thinks. They're Draco's friends. He needs them, whether or not he sodding thinks he might. 

"Yes, well," Potter's saying, not looking at Pansy. "I doubt Draco can give us any information on a man old enough to be his bloody grandfather and who evidently left the country when Draco was an infant. However, Narcissa Malfoy might be a resource." He glances over at Althea. "Mark her down on our interview list." 

Althea nods, the nib of her quill scratching across the pad of paper in front of her. Potter's flush is fading, but he still looks a bit discombobulated. Pansy just sits back, and takes a sip of her coffee, bright pink lippy print overlapping the already transferred pigment from her earlier sips at the matte plastic top.

There's a sound in the hall, something like raised voices and the sound of footsteps, loud and quick, and then two brief, terribly solid knocks on the door. Potter's hand goes instinctively to his wand, as do the others'. "Come in," Potter says with a cautious pivot of his body. He's minimising the target area, Blaise thinks, and wonders if he should perhaps get ready to cast. His brain's already calculating target distance and likely first deflections in an enclosed space.

The broad, tall figure of the Minister of Magic fills the open doorway. "Oh, for fuck's sake, all of you. Stand down," Kingsley Shacklebolt says in a tone of command, and they all slowly take their hands away from their wands and relax their postures as he strides to the centre of the room.

"Harry," Shacklebolt says, looming over the guv. There's a scowl on his face, and for a moment Blaise thinks it's almost as if the rest of them aren't there. "Where the everliving fuck were you on Friday? We needed you here."

Blaise sees the muscle twitch in Potter's jaw as he looks away. "At home. It was important."

Shacklebolt gives Potter an even look. "Much as you may like to think otherwise, Draco Malfoy's mental health isn't a priority for the Ministry at this moment. Whilst I do appreciate the difficulties he's facing, and he has my utmost sympathy, we have to get things done since we've Luxembourg breathing down our sodding necks, and the _Prophet_ as well. I haven't time for the polite niceties now, do I make myself clear? So from now on, I expect you to be in the office, leading this team, unless you're bloody bleeding out in St Mungo's."

Fuck, Blaise thinks. The last thing they need is the guv throwing a snit in front of the Minister. He holds his breath, but to Blaise's surprise, Potter just looks at the floor, swallows, and sighs. 

"All right," Potter says, his voice quiet. "Point made, Kingsley." He sounds almost like an errant schoolboy, but not resistant, just a bit bitter. Melancholic. Worried even. Blaise knows then that Draco is in much worse shape than he imagined, that things are definitely not well at all. Fuck it. Blaise is going to make Draco speak to him. Today even, if he can get the arsehole to pick up his mobile or open the sodding Floo. Because obviously the guv doesn't have it under control. Not given the look on Potter's face.

And as much as he loves Draco--and Blaise does, like the brother he'd never had--Blaise doesn't disagree with Shacklebolt. He's worried that the guv's too protective of Draco, that he wants to wrap Draco in cotton wool, instead of kicking his arse properly. Draco needs to be out in the world again. Needs to be interacting with people. Not hidden away, sinking into his grief.

Shacklebolt takes central position in front of the boards. Potter turns and sits down next to Blaise, his posture stiff. And there's the spark of anger Blaise had missed in his voice. Blaise glances over, and Potter's jaw is clenched. A file jacket on the corner of the desk starts to smoke just a bit. Blaise covers it with his palm, quenching it before it bursts into flame. 

"Calm your tits, guv," he murmurs, and Potter leans back in his chair and exhales. He runs his good hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. 

"I'm fine," Potter says. Blaise thinks that's complete bollocks, but it's not his place to point that out. 

He turns back to the Minister who appears to be in a devil of a mood, if the fierceness of his expression is any indicator. Blaise can see the Auror in Shacklebolt emerging again, the iron backbone of practice underneath the smooth veneer of political politeness and superficial encounters he's developed over the past few years. 

Shacklebolt pivots, his arms folded over his broad chest, his purple robe only slightly rumpled. He addresses them each in turn. "Sergeant Whitaker. Constable Zabini. Inspector Potter. Constable Parkinson. Since you've managed to bring in Antonin Dolohov without too much damage to yourselves, Potter's arm notwithstanding, you lot are officially taking over the hunt for Rodolphus Lestrange. We need to find that murderous bastard and get him back under our control." His mouth tightens. "Immediately. That will be your highest priority going forward. Understood?"

Potter nods. "Entirely." 

"You'll have every resource the Ministry has available to you." Shacklebolt glances around, eyes them all. "Whatever Seven-Four-Alpha requires, I am willing to consider. Within reason, of course. But I'll expect your utmost dedication to the situation. All hands on deck, so to speak, until Lestrange is brought in. He's a wily bastard, even more so than Dolohov so this won't be an easy collar at all. However, I'm hoping your luck will hold and that we can bring him and the Dementors who escaped with him back in quickly and with minimal damages across the board."

There's a hush in the room as the enormity of the task sinks in. 

"However, I'm also here to commend all of you," Shacklebolt says, turning to look directly at Blaise. It takes Blaise by surprise, but he squares his shoulders and tries to meet the intensity of the Minister's gaze without flinching. "Seven-Four-Alpha has done the first good thing for the Auror force since the start of this fuckery, and you should be justly proud of your achievements in the States." Shacklebolt smiles, and Blaise thinks that's even more unsettling than his scowl. "In fact, I intend to hold a commendation ceremony on Friday next in the Ministry Atrium to celebrate. You'll be given an award as team, which will go in your personnel files and be considered for any future promotions." 

Blaise glances at Pansy, then Althea. They're all a bit surprised by that, he thinks. 

Shacklebolt hesitates, then says, "Sergeant Malfoy will be excepted, should he take Saul Croaker's offer of employment with the Unspeakables." He looks over at the guv. "Draco's terms of employment will be backwritten to predate his assignment to Seven-Four-Alpha, as a protection for both you and him, Harry." 

The room's silent, shocked. Blaise can feel the guv tense up beside him. _Calm,_ Blaise thinks, hoping it'll somehow seep into Potter's thick skull. _Don't implode the goddamned room._

"That's not bloody fair," Pansy says after a moment, leaning forward. "Draco's done more than any of us on this case--"

"I'm aware, Constable Parkinson," Shacklebolt says, evenly. "However, Saul, Gawain and I would prefer to protect Sergeant Malfoy from any charges of impropriety, should his relationship with Inspector Potter become common knowledge."

Potter's hands tremble on the desk in front of him. He clenches them tightly, folds them together.

"Everyone's going to know already," Althea says. "You can't just disappear him from our team." She glares at Shacklebolt, then adds, "Sir."

Shacklebolt looks grim. "I can and I will, Sergeant Whitaker. It's not without precedent when an Auror moves to the Unspeakables as it is. Saul prefers to make a distinction between their areas of service, anyway, and on occasion that requires erasing parts of their Auror past. For Sergeant Malfoy, that will require sacrificing any official recognition of his association with Seven-Four-Alpha as a sergeant in the Auror force."

"You're stripping him of his sergeant's bars?" Althea's mouth thins. She looks at Shacklebolt, her chin raised, defiant. "He earned those--"

"And he'll be given the equivalent status in the Unspeakables." Shacklebolt frowns at her. "Not that it's any concern of yours, Sergeant Whitaker."

Potter's silent, his face set. Blaise glances over at him, murmurs, "Don't set anything on fire, guv." Potter just looks at Blaise, and Blaise flinches away at the fury in Potter's eyes. 

"I won't," Potter says quietly. "Yet." He looks back at Shacklebolt. "What are you giving Draco in exchange?"

"A second-rank Unspeakable position," Shacklebolt says. He doesn't avoid Potter's gaze. "A pay rise, and full funding for any Legilimency training he wishes to do. Including a degree at Tirésias, should he want." Shacklebolt hesitates, then says, "He'll go far in the Unspeakables. I can assure you of that."

None of Seven-Four-Alpha says anything. Pansy looks furious, and Althea can't meet the Minister's eyes. Blaise feels empty. Unsettled. None of this feels right to him. It's bad enough they've lost Draco. Blaise doesn't want to pretend he'd never been here.

And then the guv says, his voice raspy and raw, "You give him everything he fucking asks for, Kingsley. _Everything._ "

Shacklebolt hesitates, and then he nods. "Whatever's within my ability to give and within reason." He looks at Potter. "That's all I can promise."

Potter's hands are shaking. He flattens them on the desk, sinks back in his chair. "I'll hold you to that."

The Minister's silent, his face unhappy. He sighs, then glances back at Blaise. "On a more pleasant note, Zabini? A week from Friday, I intend to present you with a personal commendation. A Hesphaestus Gore Medal, to be exact, so be prepared to say a few words."

Blaise blinks. "Sorry, sir, but what?" He's surprised. A Gore's one of the highest service awards an Auror can receive. No one gets it at his age and rank. Bloody no one. 

"You heard me." Shacklebolt's mouth quirks up at one corner. "You earned the collar. The Wizengamot wants to reward you, and to make a statement in regards to other Death Eaters that may still be at large."

It doesn't quite feel right, accepting the reward when Draco's being ignored. "I don't think I could--" Blaise hesitates. "It's just if Draco doesn't…" He trails off, runs a hand over his close-cropped hair.

Potter looks at him. "If you refuse this for Draco's sake, he'll never forgive you. You know that."

Even Pansy nods. "It's your collar, Blaise. Let them medal you."

All Blaise can think is, _what is my mother going to say._ He knows she's ambivalent about his choice of work, but surely she'll be pleased by this. He nods slowly. "All right." His face is warm as his team starts clapping for him, all but Potter, who's banging his left hand on the table, unable to clap against his damaged arm. 

When the din settles down, Shacklebolt takes a board quill and scrawls _Azkaban: Dementors_ along the top, then next to it, _New York: Arms._ He turns around. "Let's talk about what's next."

They all grow quiet.

"My question to you now, and I'm sorry to be the one to give you a challenge right as you've found your mark, but the one we must answer is what are we missing?" Shacklebolt shifts, writing a list on the side. It's painfully familiar. 

_Wrightson, Bates, Hopkirk, Selwyn._ Underneath, he writes in all capital letters, _L. MALFOY._

The guv shifts next to Blaise, and Blaise thinks that this is where it becomes a matter of duty. Potter can't keep Draco from any of this, as much as he might like to. They're Aurors, and this is what they've been tasked to do. Potter can be as bloody minded as he'd like, they've still got a case to solve, even if Potter has to investigate Malfoy's family.

Shacklebolt turns to face them, and really, he's not a bit intimidating in his purple formal robes with his arms crossed and keen glint in his eye. For the first time, Blaise thinks they might be able to cut through this tangle. He wishes he only knew how.

"We've become distracted by all the deaths," Shacklebolt says, and the Auror in him is back at full force. "And yes, we've had five prisoners killed in a fortnight, but we've two things still to figure out--" He holds up a finger. " _What_ was the original plan---" Another finger goes up. "And _how_ is Lestrange involved?" He looks around the room. "Anyone?"

A pin could drop in the room and you could hear it, Blaise thinks.

These are questions none of them can answer, but Blaise has the sense that they're the ones that are going to rule Seven-Four-Alpha's lives, at least in the immediate future. He sets the worn out husk of his sugar quill down and takes up a piece of paper and a real quill.

This is how proper policing begins, he thinks, and he starts a new header, scrawling down what Shacklebolt's writing on white board.

Really, all they have to do is start breaking things down.

***

Althea stands on the edge of a cliff overlooking Newgale Beach in Pembrokeshire, her broom clasped tightly in one hand. The sea stretches out in front of her, deep and blue in the early evening light, the beach a thin sandy beige curve between the water and a wide pebble break. A faint breeze ripples through her loose hair, crisp and cool enough in the fading heat of the day to make her wish she'd brought a jacket.

She hears the soft rustle and thump of a broom landing behind her, feels the whisper of a Notice-Me-Not Charm falling off. She doesn't turn around. She knows who it is. 

"All right then?" Maxie says, coming up behind her. He has a small wooden box tucked beneath his arm, his broom clutched in his other hand.

"Well enough, I reckon." Althea gives him a small smile. "It's been a long Monday." She doesn't want to talk about the bollocking Kingsley gave Seven-Four-Alpha this morning, or the way Potter's face had been worried and grim all day, or strangeness of having Malfoy's desk empty beside her, knowing he won't be back to fill it. Not any time soon at least. 

Maxie looks out over the water. "So this is it." 

Althea nods. "It's where he always talked about holidaying." She can still recall the conversations in the bullpen, Marcus laughing, telling them about the summers his family had caravanned in Pembrokeshire, him with his mum and dad once Hogwarts had let out. He'd loved this place, loved the three-mile stretch of Newgale Beach where his mum had grown up, the last of her branch of the Griffiths family. 

"I remember." Maxie drops his broom and sits, cross-legged, on the shaggy green grass. He sets the plain pine box on the ground beside him. Althea hesitates, then sits herself. They're silent for a long moment, watching the waves roll into the shore below, before Maxie glances over at Althea and says, "The other lads weren't interested in coming."

That doesn't surprise Althea. "They're still angry."

Maxie just shrugs. "Something along those lines." Uncertainty twists across his face. "I still say he was set up."

He needs to believe that, Althea knows. If she hadn't brought Marcus in herself, she'd probably be the same. It seems unfathomable to her even now that he was working with Selwyn. With Lestrange, too, she supposes. She just sighs, pulls her knees to her chest. "You know he wasn't." 

Neither of them speak. Althea can hear the soft roar of the surf beneath them, the occasional cry of the gulls that float through the air, soaring past on a burst of breeze. The air smells salty from the sea and sweet from the grass, and she understands why Marcus may have loved it here. There's a peacefulness she's never felt in the depths of London, a quiet solitude on this spit of land at the edge of the ocean that tugs at Althea's soul. 

She glances down at the box. It's small. Neatly polished. There's card charmed to the top, crisp white rag paper with black copperplate engraving. _Marcus Brian Wrightson, 13 Jan 1959 - 29 June 2006._

Althea'd gone to Maxie on Thursday last, after the guv had pulled her aside, told her that Marcus' body still hadn't been claimed. It was the least they could do, she and Maxie agreed, and they'd made arrangements with McIntyre and Mackenzie to cremate Marcus's body so that they could bring it here. Have a memorial of their own. 

Everyone deserves to be remembered in some way, she thinks. Even Marcus. No matter how much his betrayal still stings. 

She opens up her satchel, slipping a hand into the pocket with the extendible charm on it. She pulls out two bottles of beer, handing one to Maxie. 

"Old Wright's," Maxie says, looking at the brightly coloured label. 

"His favourite." Althea taps her wand against the caps, popping them off easily. They fall into the grass, and beer froths up over the necks of the bottles. Althea licks it off her fingers, then taps her bottle to Maxie's. "To Marcus."

"To Marcus," Maxie echoes, and they both drink. 

The beer's sour and hoppy, the way Marcus had always liked it. It'd been his go-to beer whenever they'd gone down the pub, the one he'd ordered for them all when he'd bought first rounds. Althea doesn't much like it herself, but it reminds her of him, and evenings spent with the lads at a corner table in the Leaky, and there's something about that memory that makes her heart ache. 

She sets the bottle down in the grass, pushing the bottom into the soft earth so it won't spill over. The sky's only just starting to get a tinge of rosy pink to it, and there are still families along the beach, children playing in the shallow waters. She wonders what they might make of her and Maxie sitting up here at the head of the cliffs. 

"He was a damned good SIO," Maxie says after a moment. 

"If you overlook the secret treason." Althea looks over at him. Maxie's frowning. "Come on, Arthur. You know he wasn't set up."

Maxie glances away. Takes another swig of beer. He sighs, then rolls the bottle between his hands. "I can't believe he'd do anything like that. Not Marcus."

Althea knows. It's shaken her to her core as well. She reaches over, lays a hand on Maxie's knee. "People do things for stupid reasons." The horses, Marcus had said. Money lost at Ladbrokes on the bloody fucking horses, and look where it'd got him. Done and dusted and with no one willing to step forward to bury him. His mum and dad were already gone, and his brother didn't care enough to pick up his body from the sodding morgue. 

"I don't want to end up like this," Althea says, her voice quiet. When Maxie looks over at her, she wraps her elbows around her knees, stares out over the water. "Alone. No one who cares enough to come bury me. Mum's gone. Dad won't be around forever."

Maxie just lifts his bottle to his mouth again and takes a swig. He sighs as he lowers it, settles the bottle between the bend of his thigh and knee. "You won't be. You've friends." He looks Althea's way. "Potter. That lot of his. Me." 

"That's not what I mean." Althea blinks back a hot wetness in her eyes. Her voice sounds raw and scratchy.

"I know." Maxie's silent for a moment, then he says, "Marcus has us."

"We weren't his friends," Althea points out. "He was our SIO."

"And we're here grieving him, yeah?" Maxie rubs his palms over his thighs. "I reckon that's not leaving him alone." He bites his lip, then says, "I miss the fucking arsehole."

Fuck but Althea does too. She feels a bit traitorous at the same time. Marcus Wrightson wasn't a good man. Not entirely. But he wasn't evil either. He was a just a human being who'd made a stupid, mad decision that had ruined his life. Ended it even, at the end of Arnold Peasegood's wand. 

"He was a good SIO," Althea says finally, and she means it. As fond as she's grown of Seven-Four-Alpha, Potter's a new guv, one who's uncertain at times, who makes the mistakes of a boss who's growing into his role. Marcus had twenty years on Potter, and he'd taken Althea under his wing, treated her like she was worthwhile in a force that eyed her askance for being a woman. Made her his protégé. She owes Marcus Wrightson a hell of a lot. 

Even if she's still angry with him for what he'd done. 

Maxie's quiet again. It's a comfortable silence between them, one that Althea's missed. Arthur Maxton's a damned good Auror and an even better friend. She looks over at him. "Thanks for taking care of Dad," she says, and Maxie just shrugs. 

"He's a good one, Mitchell is." Maxie takes another swallow of his beer. "He worries about you."

Althea knows. Her father's never been keen on her being an Auror, even if he understands why she'd taken on the job. "It's just the two of us," she says. "He frets."

Maxie dangles his beer bottle between his fingers, lets the smooth glass bottom swing over grass, brushing against the stalks. "Rumour has it Malfoy's been sacked."

That makes Althea's head jerk up. She scowls. "Bollocks."

"Rowan Bottoms says Viola was doing the paperwork today." Maxie looks over at her. "Termination files. Saw Malfoy's name right there at the top. Something happen whilst you lot were away or is it just his dad?"

Althea rubs her thumb over her knee. She doesn't know how much she can say, but she doesn't want gossip flying around the bullpen either about Malfoy. "It's not like that," she says finally. "Croaker's pulling him to the Unspeakables." She picks up her beer, takes a sip before adding, "He has Legilimens talent."

Maxie just looks at her. "He's a fucking Death Eater."

"Come off it, Maxie," Althea says. "You know better."

"He has a fucking Mark." Maxie leans towards her, and she can smell the beer on his breath. "You can't be that bloody naive."

Althea looks away. She doesn't know how to explain it to Maxie, doesn't know how to say that she's seen the Mark, that she's watched it seep blood, that she's bandaged it for Malfoy, seen the pain he's gone through. The fear that's wracked him. "It's not the same."

"The hell it isn't." Maxie rummages in his pocket, then pulls out a rumpled packet of cigarettes. He taps a fag out into his palm, then settles it between his lips, lighting it with the tip of his wand. The fag glows a bright orange, then Maxie exhales a thin stream of grey smoke. "Once Marked, always Marked. You bloody well know that. Those bastards killed your mother--"

"Malfoy wasn't one of them." Althea's skin feels hot and prickly. She can't look over at Maxie; she's afraid she'll burst into tears. It's getting too close to the anniversary of the attack. Althea's been having dreams the past few nights about her mum, waking up certain Clio's watching her from the foot of her bed. It hadn't helped, going to Lucius Malfoy's funeral, Althea thinks. Seeing Malfoy's grief at the death of his father has only stirred up her own feelings of parental loss. 

And then there's Dolohov, isn't there? Knowing that he's somewhere in the depths of the building she works in. Remembering the feel of his body as she'd chained herself to it in the transport nearly a week ago. No one had asked her how that felt, how it had been to be that close to one of her mother's murderers. Althea had pushed it all away, had told herself she'd been fine. She hadn't. So instead she wakes up with her mother's name on her lips, with her skin crawling, with the image ringing in her mind of Antonin Dolohov falling in an explosion of green light, his body going limp from the curse she'd cast from her own wand. 

Her sleep hadn't been restful lately.

She holds her hand out, waits for Maxie to pass her the fag. Her fingers only tremble a little bit around the cigarette; she lifts it to her mouth and takes a long drag from it. The smoke burns her lungs, tastes sharp and acrid in her mouth. Althea exhales in a slow sigh. It's been a while since she's smoked. Years, really. She'd forgotten how calming it can be. Dirty habit though. She lifts the fag to her lips again, the tip glowing a bright orange as she sucks on it once more. 

"Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater," Maxie says, and he takes the cigarette back when she hands it to him. "And his son's Marked too. I know you're all cosy now, you and him and Parkinson and Zabini, but you can't trust that lot, Thea." He shakes his head and breathes out another stream of smoke. "Slytherins do and say whatever they think'll get you on their side."

Althea looks over at him. "Your dad was Slytherin, wasn't he?" She thinks about her own mother and the Slytherin scarf Althea has tucked away in a trunk in her flat. Before Seven-Four-Alpha, she'd compartmentalised her feelings about Slytherin, told herself her mum had just been mis-Sorted, that she'd been a _good_ Slytherin, whatever that had bloody well meant, that her mother hadn't been like the others. Now she thinks she was a fucking arsehole about that. Slytherin wasn't fucking monomorphic, after all. Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini have taught her that at least.

Maxie's hand shakes a bit as he taps the ash off the end of the fag. "Just means I know what I'm banging on about, don't it?" His cuff slips back; she can see the edge of the burn scar on his wrist. It goes up his arm, twisting around his elbow and up towards his shoulder. She'd seen the whole of it once, when Maxie was pissed. He'd taken his shirt off, shown it to her. Told her how his father cast a fire hex on him when he was sixteen. He hadn't told her why, just that it'd happened. All Althea knows is that Maxie hates his dad. 

It's something she's never entirely understood. As frustrated and angry as she's been with her dad over the years, she's never hated him. Not like the way Maxie loathes his father.

She's never asked why. She's not certain she wants to know.

They sit in silence, watching as the rosy light of sunset starts to spread over the horizon, shimmering across the far reaches of the water. 

Finally Maxie sighs and stubs the cigarette out beside his hip, grinding the stub into the loamy earth. "We need that fucking Death Eater Registry," he says after a moment, and he doesn't look at Althea. "I know you think I'm mad, but it'll help us do our job. The lads in the bullpen agree."

"The lads in the bullpen are fucking tits," Althea says. She picks up her beer again and takes a sip then grimaces. The bottle's not even half-gone. "That goddamn registration act doesn't give us anything we don't already know--"

"We could track families," Maxie says, and Althea gives him an incredulous look.

"Who haven't bloody done anything?" Althea shakes her head. "It's the criminals we're after, you arsehole. Not their mums and siblings and cousins. For fuck's sake, Arthur. You're better than that."

Maxie twists his bottle between his hands, rubs at the corner of the label with his thumb. "You don't know the families aren't trying something. Look at Selwyn's sister. She protected him--"

"That's a minor offence," Althea says sharply, and she surprises herself. A month ago she'd be on Maxie's side, saying the same thing the lads are. Working with Seven-Four-Alpha's changed her, she thinks. Shown her people can be more than one expects. "And it's not anything one of us might have done ourselves, if the shoe'd been on the other foot."

"But it wouldn't, would it?" Maxie glances over at her. "We don't have family who'd do that sort of thing. Except maybe my dad, and fuck, I'd turn in that old bastard in a heartbeat, no questions asked." His face twists, his mouth tightens.

Privately Althea thinks he wouldn't. Family can be complex. Those ties bind you a bit tighter than you'd like, really, whether or not you want them to. It's hard to untangle them sometimes. She suspects that's something Malfoy's finding out right now himself. All those expectations. All those wishes and hopes and dreams, the ways in which you wanted your parents to be different, to be better and stronger for you, to protect you, to not sink into their own ancient hurts, their own fucked-up pain. 

She watches a seagull swoop over them, its grey and white plumage almost disappearing into the sky. Her chest feels tight; she breathes out slowly. 

"Nothing's that black-and-white," Althea says finally. "Especially not so it can be legislated the way Marchbanks and Hawkworth want to."

Maxie just sighs. "Well, sixty-eight percent of the wizarding world disagrees with you, or so the _Prophet_ 's polls are saying. The Wizengamot are listening to that."

Althea takes another swig of beer. "Sixty-eight percent of the wizarding world are fucking idiots then. And the Wizengamot are goddamn wankers." She lowers her bottle. "So." She shrugs. "Not a strong argument, Maxie."

That makes Maxie snort in amusement and shake his head. "Bloody idealist for a Ravenclaw, aren't you. Sure you're not Hufflepuff?"

"Fuck off," Althea says easily, and the tension between them eases a bit. Althea doesn't think it'll ever go away now. Maxie's not comfortable with the way she's thinking, with the shift her beliefs have undergone in the past few weeks. She knows that. But they can still sit here together, drinking shit beer in memory of their corrupted SIO. That's something, Althea hopes. 

She glances down at the box between them. "Reckon it's time now?"

Maxie frowns out at the water. "Close enough to sunset, I think." 

It's a wizarding tradition, this. One that goes back centuries, Althea suspects, probably long before the priests with their rough robes and tonsured hair brought their Christianity to this island. The spirit leaves at sunset, Althea remembers her mother telling her, when she'd asked once why the window'd been open in the room Nan's body had been kept in. Althea had done the same for her mother, making certain there'd been a window that could be cracked an inch or two. McIntyre and Mackenzie hadn't batted an eye. The spirit needs a chance to escape, to keep from being tethered to this world for eternity.

Althea wonders if it'll work the same for Marcus. They've burned his body, charred it to ash and little bits of bone. Still, even if Marcus gets stuck here, she can't imagine this view wouldn't be what he'd like to see forever. 

She certainly would. 

They clamber to their feet, she and Maxie, and with their wands in their hands, their Diffindos slash into the grass and earth, leaving behind deep, loamy, dark streaks in the green stalks. They cross each other's paths, creating the intricate pattern in the dirt, the one they'd discussed, a quaternary knot on a closed path that twists and turns in on itself, the box sat in its centre. When it's done, Althea's sweaty and tired. She looks across the knot at Maxie, and he nods. Together they Levitate the box, then Althea murmurs the charm that opens it, sends the ashes scattering across the knot, falling into the brown loam. 

"Dirt to dirt," Althea says, her voice quiet. "Dust to dust."

Maxie sweeps his wand across the knot, and it closes up, the earth sinking back into the ground, taking the ashes with it, the grass settling over the top. A moment later and it's impossible to see. 

Althea thinks she hears a soft sigh behind her. When she turns, there's no one there. 

"Sleep well, Marcus Wrightson, you bloody bastard," Maxie says, and Althea can hear the emotion in his voice. "You won't be forgotten by us, now will you?" He picks up their beer bottles, hands Althea's to her. They clink them together once more, take a drink, and then upend them over the ground in a libation for the dead. Althea's certain Marcus would approve. 

The rosy light in the sky's beginning to take on orange streaks. 

Maxie slides his arm around Althea's waist. They stand silently at the edge of the cliff, listening to the waves roll into the shore. 

And Althea believes Marcus might finally be at peace.

***

Draco stands in the middle of the Grimmauld library, staring at the Floo. He's dressed and eaten, but he's still not certain he can do this, not certain he can go back into the Ministry this morning. He thinks about disappearing, about leaving the house and going to his flat. He could hide from Harry, if he wanted.

Granger would tell him, though. Draco's certain of that. 

Still, he looks at Harry and says, "I think you should leave before me today."

"Are you going to crawl back into bed?" Harry asks, his voice light, but with a clear undercurrent of suspicion. 

Probably, Draco wants to say, but instead he scowls at Harry, brushes his hair back behind one ear. "I'd think that, all things considered, you'd like our fellow Ministry employees _not_ to notice we're arriving at the same time and from the same Floo every morning?"

Harry sighs, but he picks up his satchel and hefts it over his shoulder. "Don't take too long," he says, and he leans in and kisses Draco, his lips warm and soft. Draco wants to melt against Harry, to wrap his arms around Harry's neck and drag him back to bed. He can't. He knows that. Harry'd been tense all night about Shacklebolt's little fit in the incident room--though there's something about it Draco's positive Harry's not telling him--and Draco knows Harry's worried about the future of Seven-Four-Alpha. Part of Draco wants to tell Harry to walk away. He's better than the Ministry. But where would that leave Pansy and Blaise, he thinks. Not to mention Althea. If Seven-Four-Alpha's dissolved, it affects them as well. 

So Draco'd just curled up in bed after dinner beside Harry, his head on Harry's shoulder, his palm flattened against Harry's chest, and he'd stroked Harry's hair, murmuring that everything would be all right until they'd fallen asleep wrapped around each other. Draco isn't certain he believes this bloody, godforsaken week will be fine in the end, not at the moment at least, but he wants Harry to, because it calms Harry down, and for that, Draco'll lie through his bloody damned teeth if he must. 

Draco pulls back from the kiss reluctantly. He loves the press of Harry's body against his, the soft roughness of Harry's lips. He feels safe with Harry. More so than he ever has in his life, and whilst he misses the freedom of New York, the openness with which they could walk its streets, he likes the comfort of Grimmauld Place, the way the house welcomes him, settles around Draco like a warm, cosy blanket. It feels right to be here, next to Harry. Draco doesn't want to go back to his flat, doesn't want to sleep in his bed alone. He's never felt like this with anyone else he's shagged; Draco's always appreciated having his own space. 

It's strange to need this intimacy. To want it, even.

"Go," Draco says, a bit thickly. "I'll follow." At Harry's raised eyebrow, Draco adds, "I promise, you twit."

"It'll get easier," Harry says. Draco looks away. It won't, he thinks, but he can't tell Harry that. So he just nods, his throat hurting. His hair falls into his face again, and he hears Harry sigh. "Right then." 

Draco turns away, goes to sit on the edge of the sofa. He watches Harry toss the Floo powder into the hearth, sees the flames burst green, and then Harry's gone. Draco's shoulders slump. He leans back against the sofa, the leather creaking beneath his shoulders. Dust floats in a patch of sunlight that streams from the half-open curtains, pooling amongst the shadows stretched across the faded Axminster. Draco thinks he could stay here all morning, in the warmth of the sun, curled up in the corner of the sofa. Kreacher wouldn't mind; he'd just bring Draco a cuppa and a book. Perhaps even put some Celestina on the ancient phonograph in the corner. 

Merlin but it's tempting. Much more so than pushing himself up, Flooing into the Department of Mysteries. 

Yesterday hadn't been horrible, but it hadn't been good either. Granger had taken him around, introduced him to people, most of whom he couldn't recognise again if he walked past them in the hall. The Unspeakables seem to have plenty of witches and wizards of that sort. Draco supposes it comes in handy at times. He's been fitted for a uniform, given the password for the back entrance to the labyrinth of corridors, filled out the sodding paperwork for the departmental transfer. 

And now he has to go back in.

This isn't what he wants. Draco leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He breathes out, trying to still the twist of emotions roiling deep inside of him. He wants to be back on the Auror force. Wants to be in the incident room with Harry, to be sat across from Blaise and Althea, waiting for Pans to walk up from the lab.

He can't even speak to them right now. It hurts too much to think of them together, to know he's not part of that any more. Blaise had rung Draco's mobile last night, then Pans had tried. Draco hadn't answered either time. He knows it's foolish of him to shut them off like this. Knows that they want to comfort him. Want to see him. But Draco can't bear it. He's no longer part of Seven-Four-Alpha, and he's feeling the loss far too deeply. 

They'll never really understand, he thinks. But Harry does. In his own quiet way.

If he's honest, Draco's furious about it all. Furious that his life has changed so bloody much. He doesn't know who he is any longer. If he ever had in the first place. Everything he thought was Draco Malfoy is being stripped away, scoured off. 

Everything except this goddamned Mark. 

He can still feel it burn most of the time. The pain's not unbearable, like it'd been at first, but it's there, just below the surface, breaking through occasionally. Draco hasn't told Harry. Hasn't told anyone, really. He doesn't want to worry them. But it scares him nonetheless. 

And so he lies awake at night beside Harry, worrying. Wondering when the Mark will flare again, when it will send him to his knees. 

That's why Draco pushes himself off the sofa, picks up his satchel and walks to the Floo. Because if anyone is going to help Draco figure the Mark out, if anyone is going teach him what he can do to break it, to keep it from ruling his life this way, it's Saul bloody Croaker.

Draco takes one last, lingering look back at the comfort of the Grimmauld library, and then he turns back to the hearth, Floo powder in hand.

Harry's waiting when Draco steps through the Ministry Floo. Not terribly obviously, at least not for a Gryffindor, but Draco can't help but roll his eyes at the sight of his boyfriend leaning against the far wall, chatting with Miraphora Mina from the Runes and Symbols department. Harry looks up as Draco walks by, and his smile is wide. "Malfoy," he says, turning away from Miraphora, who looks a bit too disappointed by that for Draco's tastes. "Just the man I was waiting for."

"I'm certain," Draco says, and he nods towards Miraphora as Harry falls into step with him. "So very discreet," he adds, lowering his voice. 

"Wanted to see if you'd actually come through." Harry gives Draco a sideways look. "Wasn't entirely certain you would."

Draco frowns, hooks his thumb beneath the leather strap of his satchel across his chest. "Your faith in me is inspirational." He won't say that he almost didn't step into the Floo. He doesn't need to; it's obvious Harry knows. 

"I'm glad you did," Harry says, almost as if he hasn't heard Draco. It's how he deals with Draco in a snit; Draco knows that full well. He thinks he ought to be annoyed, but he's too bloody tired to care at the moment. Harry looks over at him. "I worry."

"I know." Draco sighs then, and he dips his head, gazing down at his booted feet as they stride across the Atrium towards the bank of lifts. "I don't mean for you to." He feels Harry's knuckles brush his leg, discreet and barely noticeable. It makes Draco feel warm. Grounded in a way. He glances at Harry then. "But thank you."

Harry just smiles, and Draco has to look away again, his breath nearly going out of him at the intimacy of Harry's gaze. Draco can feel his cheeks warm. 

And then Harry bumps into a woman, small and dark-haired. "Sorry," Harry starts to say, but he falls silent when Cho Chang turns around. Draco can see the lines of grief etched into her face. Her brother, he remembers. Winston Chang. Died in the line of duty trying to protect Draco's bloody father. And failing. 

Chang's face freezes, the comment she was about to make dies on her lips. And then she takes a step back, looking between them. "Oh," she says, and her face twists in a spasm of pain when her gaze falls on Draco. He stills. "You."

"Cho," Harry says, stepping forward as Chang starts to turn away. "I'm sorry."

At that Chang stops, and Draco can see the tautness of her shoulders, the wariness of her stance, as if she's ready to flee in her three-inch heels. "Sorry doesn't fucking bring Win back, does it?" she asks tightly, not looking at Harry, and then she's turning away again, her fists clenched at her sides, wetness forming at the corners of her eyes. She reaches up, brushes her fingers against her lashes, her head bent, her sharp, short bob falling forward to hide her face.

Draco touches Harry's arm before he can speak again. "Don't," Draco says under his breath. "Leave her be." She needs time with her grief, he thinks. It's not as if he doesn't understand. He does. All too bloody well.

Harry falls silent as Chang walks away from them, as quickly as she can, her heels clacking against the stone floor. Harry and Draco stand still in the middle of the Atrium, Ministry workers flowing around them, hurrying towards their offices and the drudgery of their daily work. 

"I didn't mean to," Harry starts to say, and then he stops, a terrible, sad expression on his face that makes Draco's heart twist. He feels responsible for Harry's pain. Draco knows damned well Chang wouldn't have cut Harry like that if he hadn't been standing here. It'd been his father's fault.

"She's just angry," Draco says. He can still see Chang's small frame, over next to the lifts. A woman, tall and blonde, leans over to say something to her. Chang just nods, and the woman touches her arm gently. "At me more than you, I'd say." Draco licks his lip, breathes out. "What with the things the _Prophet_ 's been saying about Father lately." The latest is discreet speculation that Draco arranged the hit on his father for some perceived wrong. Which is bloody laughable. Until it isn't. Draco swallows, then looks away. The vultures are circling, he thinks, and eager to feed on any scrap they can pull off his father's rotting corpse.

"You didn't do anything." Harry's voice is hot, sharp. 

Draco looks over at him. Harry's slinged arm is tight against his chest, the fingers clenched into a tight fist, and Harry's holding himself tense and taut, as if he's on high alert. Draco wants to lay his hand over Harry's, to settle him with a touch. He can't here. Not in the Ministry Atrium. Draco exhales. He feels as if a band's wrapped around his chest, constraining him, and his heart thuds heavily. He can feel the first tendrils of panic start to curl their way through him, and he closes his eyes for a moment, willing them away. _Please,_ he thinks. _Not right now. Not in front of everyone._

And then Harry's face softens. "Are you all right? Draco?"

He's not. Draco can feel his legs get wobbly, and he needs to sit down. Needs to breathe. There's a rushing sound in his ears, loud and filled with static, and his head buzzes unpleasantly. He can hear Harry saying his name, but all he can do is to give Harry a blank look, his mind starting to get caught up in the all-too-familiar loop, his anxiety swelling up, filling every corner of his being. 

Somehow Harry gets him to the fountain. Draco finds himself sitting on the edge, Harry in front of him, blocking people from looking at him. Draco's hand's in the water, and it feels cool and good against his skin. He doesn't know if he put it in, or Harry. 

"Breathe," Harry's saying, his voice soft. 

The noise in Draco's head's easing, replaced by the quiet splash of water behind him. He inhales, and all he can smell is Harry and the powdery muskiness of his cologne. It settles him in a way nothing else can. 

"I'm sorry," Draco murmurs. He can feel the heat of his face, the prickle of shame between his shoulder blades. He hunches himself, his arms crossed over his chest, his satchel banging against his hip. "I'm fine." 

That's a lie, and they both know it, but Harry doesn't challenge Draco on it, for which Draco's grateful. Instead, Harry steps back, lets Draco stand. "Are you going to be all right at work?" His forehead's furrowed in worry. 

Draco nods. "If I'm not," he says, "I'll go to Granger." He won't, but saying that will make Harry feel better.

Harry's shoulders relax. "Good." 

Draco looks away. He rubs a hand over his face. "I need to get downstairs." _Before I fall apart again,_ he wants to add, but he refuses to make Harry worry more than he has to. He wants to kiss Harry, to tell him everything will be all right. Instead he just dares to let his fingers brush Harry's injured arm, their bodies mostly obscured by the statue of the centaur in the fountain. "I'll see you at home."

And that's what Grimmauld is, Draco realises. Home for both of them. He looks over at Harry, sees the warmth and affection in Harry's gaze. The love. Draco's stomach flutters. Things aren't easy for either of them, and he's not certain why Harry's staying through all of this mess. But he is, and Draco's so damned glad of that. 

"Home," Harry echoes, and his lips curve up in a smile. "That sounds good."

They stand there for a moment, half-hidden from the rest of the Ministry, and Harry's watching Draco in a way that makes Draco's toes curl in his boots, makes Draco's blood pound in his veins. He wants Harry. Needs him. Loves him. So goddamned desperately.

"I have to go," Draco says finally, because he knows he could stay here with Harry all bloody morning. He suspects Croaker might have charms on the Atrium, might be watching them. It's not as paranoid as it might seem. Croaker's that sort, Draco thinks. A man who sees information as power. 

Draco doesn't trust the bastard any further than he can throw him. But he needs him. And Draco hates that fact.

Harry moves back; Draco brushes past him. "Tonight," Harry murmurs in Draco's ear. "I want to shag you senseless in our bed."

Draco turns his head, meets Harry's gaze evenly. "Maybe I'll ride your prick again," he says, his voice soft. "Make you fill my hole with your spunk?"

"Jesus, Draco," Harry says, his eyes wide. "That's an image to leave a bloke with." 

Draco smiles. "I know." And he walks away from Harry, towards the staircase that leads to the back entrance of the Department of Mysteries, his heart a bit lighter. 

He can feel Harry watching him the whole damned way.

Granger's waiting for Draco when the wards on the door shift for him and he steps into the narrow staff corridor. He's not expecting her, and he jumps when he turns and sees her, leaning against the wall, her dark blue dress almost blending into the shadow around her. 

"Fuck, Granger," Draco snaps. "Don't give a bastard a fright."

"You're late again," Granger says, but her lips quirk up in a smile. She steps into the blue-white light cast by one of the sconces on the wall. It washes her brown skin out, makes her look a bit grey around the edges. "Really, don't do that; it honestly does nark Croaker off."

Draco gives her an even look. "I had to give Harry time to make it in first. Wouldn't look right, would it, both of us Flooing in together?"

Granger snorts. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Malfoy." She quirks her finger at him. "Come with me. I'm to introduce you to your new Legilimens trainer."

 _I don't need one,_ Draco thinks, but he knows that's not true. Whatever Durant managed to teach him in New York is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Legilimency. Still, he doesn't like the idea of someone he doesn't know at all poking about in his mind right now. He'll have to keep everything about Harry walled off behind his Occlumens, and that's bloody exhausting sometimes. 

Still, he falls into step beside Granger. "Who'll I be with?" He's curious, he has to admit. "I thought all your Legilimens were working on other projects."

"They are." Granger leads him down another empty hallway. Their footsteps are loud in the silence. "But Muriel's been called back, just for you." She gives Draco a small smile. "You'll probably hate her, but she's good at what she does." 

"Brilliant," Draco says under his breath. 

Granger stops in front of a plain black door, like all the other plain black doors in the Department of Mysteries. Draco doesn't know how anyone finds their way through this maze. He'll be lost by lunchtime. "Ready?" Granger asks. 

"No." Draco frowns at her. "But I haven't a bloody choice, do I?"

An almost sad look shifts across Granger's face. "You don't really," she says quietly, and her gaze meets his. Draco's grateful for the honesty.

Granger opens the door, warm light spilling into the hallway; Draco follows her in. The room's long and boringly beige, a stark contrast to the darkness just outside. There's what looks like a sparring mat in the middle of the room, and mirrors on the wall in front of it. Draco wonders if anyone'll be sitting behind them, watching. He can't imagine Croaker won't want to check up on Draco's training. 

A woman's sat on top of a table at the end of the room, a file jacket in her hand. She's small and broad-shouldered, her grey hair cut short. She glances up at them when they come in, and her face is lined with wrinkles. The look she gives them is shuttered. 

"Draco Malfoy, I presume," she says, and she stands up. She's wearing dark trousers and a peacock blue shirt so bright that it leaves an afterimage on Draco's eyes when he blinks. 

"Muriel Burke," Granger says to Draco. "She'll be organising your Legilimency training. She's been with the department since what?" Granger raises an eyebrow at Burke. "1956?" 

"Thereabouts." Burke's looking at Draco, studying him. "Too goddamned long, probably, but every time I try to take my pension, Saul blocks me, the bastard. I'll probably die in this sodding job." She points a finger at Draco. "Don't let them do that to you."

"I'll try not," Draco says. His fingers curl around the strap of his satchel. Burke makes him feel uncomfortable, as if she can see straight through him. 

Granger glances at Burke. "I'll leave you to it then?" At Burke's nod, Granger turns to Draco. "You'll be training with Muriel for a while, then we'll assess where best to put you in the department. Saul will want to meet with you again by the end of the week."

"Joy." Draco shifts uneasily.

Burke breaks into a smile. "That's an attitude I rather like. Saul's a right bastard, Malfoy. Best to keep that in mind when you speak to him."

Granger just sighs. "If you need anything, I'm available. I'll be Malfoy's SIO in the Unspeakables, Muriel, so I'll want reports on his progress as well."

"Whatever." Burke flaps a hand at Granger, then tosses the file jacket she's been holding onto the desk. She waits until Granger leaves, the door closing behind her, and then she turns to Draco. "Your first training was done by Jake Durant of MACUSA, I see."

Draco nods. He sets his satchel down next to the desk. "For Legilimency, yes."

"Right." Burke circles him, her gaze fixed on his face. "Occlumency done during the war under the tutelage of Severus Snape and Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Is that a problem?" Draco doesn't look away. He's not certain he likes this woman. Not certain he trusts her. 

She's definitely not Jake Durant, that's for fucking certain.

Burke's smile is sharp. "Not unless you're a shit Occlumens, Malfoy." 

And then Draco feels it, the press into his mind. Burke's not slow like Durant had been. She's quick and laser-precise, and Draco only just has a chance to slam his Occlumens in place. He can feel her pushing up against it, looking for weak spots. He won't let her find any. 

"Not bad," Burke says after a moment. "Show me what you have for Legilimency."

Draco stills. He settles himself the way Durant had taught him. Breathes out. Burke's watching him, a faint smile on her face. Draco lets his mind brush against hers, feather-light across the surface. He can pick up her amusement, her boredom, her doubt that he's capable of doing this. 

The latter annoys him. Intensely. 

He waits, letting her just barely feel him. Getting her settled. Used to him. Burke's just watching, one eyebrow raised, her arms folded across her chest. 

And then he strikes, instinctively knowing he has to go quick and fast with Burke, his mind finding a cleft in her Occlumens and darting into it before she's aware. He catches a memory that's close to the surface, of Burke in her kitchen, a cup of tea in front of her. The room's small and sunny and cosy, white cabinets and counters with a bright red bowl beside the sink filled with apples. He pushes harder on the apples, and the memory merges into another one, of a younger Burke, hand-in-hand with a child. A girl. They're standing in an orchard, and the girl points towards a tree, laden with apples and says, _This one, Mum. It's got the best apples, I can tell._ A boy runs past them, his dark hair ruffled by a breeze. _I'm first,_ he shouts. Burke laughs, and Draco pushes into that laugh, lets it envelop him, lets it pull him into another laugh, a party this time, at a grand house, but not one that Draco recognises. It's Parisian, he thinks, looking at the tall, paned windows and the parquet floors, or Belgian, perhaps. The accents around him are lilting and he catches a few phrases in French. Burke's a bit older, and she's uncertain about being there. She turns to the man beside her and says, _Darling, are you sure we have to stay? It's just the children--_ The man with her touches her hand and smiles down at her. _Only for half an hour, Mur. I promise--_

And then Draco's thrown out of Burke's head, both of them breathing hard, and Burke's face is flushed, her expression cross. "Well," she says after a moment. "You're bloody well better than I thought, aren't you?"

Draco just looks at her. 

Burke turns away, runs a hand through her short silver hair. "Durant's notes say you're a natural," she says after a moment. "I thought he was exaggerating, but I actually think he might have been downplaying your abilities." She looks back at Draco. "Here's the thing, sprog." She leans against the side of the desk, and she still doesn't look happy. "You're talented. You need to learn how to control it. What you just did there? Powerful but sloppy. I've a bloody headache now, and the point of Legilimency isn't to root around in your subject's brain until it implodes. So I'm going to work you hard, and you'll probably hate me for it. I could give a fuck about that, because my job is to turn a full-fledged Legilimens over to Saul Croaker in as short a time as possible." 

"Is this the point where I'm supposed to fall on my knees and beg you to be my mentor?" Draco's hackles are up. He doesn't know why. 

"Wouldn't hurt." Burke chuckles, but then she sighs, a frown settling between her brows. "But I can see why Saul wants you. Natural Legilimens are bloody rare these days. They can train us, but ones like you? It's like finding a true Seer, not just someone who's got a dab hand for divination." She's silent for a moment, watching Draco. "You're going to be good, sprog. I can tell that. Definitely better than me. Probably better than Durant, and he's one of the best Legilimens I've ever met. Natural, like you. But you're still going to have to work for it, and I'm not a kind bitch."

Draco nods. Her straightforwardness makes him feel a modicum better. "I'm fine with that."

"You'd better damned well be." Burke pushes herself off the desk. "Roll up your sleeves, and we'll get started."

Draco stills. Burke looks back at him, her blue eyes bright and sharp. 

"I know about the Mark," she says after a moment. "Let's just put that on the table. I'm not a fool, Draco Malfoy, and I'm not frightened of you because of some bastard's bloody tattoo he put on your arm. I don't think you're a Death Eater. I think you're a stupid boy who made a stupid mistake." Her mouth tightens. "Just like mine did nearly thirty years ago."

And Draco gets an image of a dark-haired teenager, barely out of Hogwarts, standing in front of his parents, his Marked arm on display. Draco can feel his anger, his defiance. So far from the small boy so eager to climb the apple tree.

Burke just looks at Draco as the memory fades from his mind. "My boy Milo. Voldemort killed him in the end. They brought his body back to me, and he looked peaceful. For the first time in years." Her jaw tightens; her face is grim. "He wasn't an evil boy, my son. He was just easily led astray. For him it was his friends. For you, I'd say, your father."

All Draco can do is nod. His throat aches. "I'm sorry," he manages.

"Don't be sorry for things you've no part in, sprog." Burke walks past him. She smells of mint and tea. "Just roll your bloody sleeves up. You'll want to, because I've every intention of sweating your fool arse off today." She looks over at him. "Apologies in advance for whatever shit comes out of your mind today."

"That sounds like a threat," Draco says, but he rolls up his sleeves. Doesn't flinch when she glances at the Mark, at the way it's broken and jagged across the twists of scar tissue.

Burke just meets his gaze. "Anything you want me to stay away from?"

Draco lifts his chin. "You see Harry Potter, you walk away."

"Noted." Burke's eyes crinkle at the corners. "As for me? I'm a bloody open book." She takes a wide stance on the sparring mat, her smile bright and fierce. She draws in a deep breath, then exhales. "Right then. Come for me, sprog."

So Draco does.

***

It's later than he'd like when Harry Floos back into Grimmauld Place. He knows Draco's already gone for the day; Hermione'd come by his office at half-six to tell him Draco'd had an exhausting day. She wouldn't give him details, but she'd just given him a hug and said, "Go home to him as soon as you can, Harry. I think he needs you tonight."

Legilimency training is difficult. Harry knows that. He doesn't really think Draco should be undergoing it now, not in the state he's in. Kingsley might be right, that Harry ought to be back at work, but Harry's not so certain Draco should be. Zabini, of couse, disagrees with him. Harry's aware of that, but Zabini's not the one waking up beside Draco, is he? Harry's the one who sees Draco with his guard let down, the one who knows the sounds Draco makes in his sleep, soft and raw and filled with grief. 

The lamps are on in the library when Harry steps out of the hearth, but Draco's nowhere to be found. Harry drops his satchel beside the sofa, then reaches down to pick up the half-empty glass of firewhisky on the side table. Harry takes a sip from it. The whisky's still warm, still steaming just a bit. 

He walks into the hallway. "Draco?" Harry calls out, peering up the staircase. There's only silence. Harry frowns, and his heart quickens, worry suddenly twisting through him. He takes the stairs two at a time. "Draco?" he shouts again, and he thinks he hears a noise in the bedroom. 

The bed's empty, the room's dark, but the en suite door's open, and a pool of golden light spills out over the wooden floor. Harry walks over, steps in, blinking. The air's warm and steamy, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. His glasses fog up for a moment, then Harry slides them off, setting them on the counter beside the sink.

Draco's stretched out in the bath, long and pale and pink from the heat of the water sloshing over his narrow hips. His clothes are piled beside the toilet, a pair of running shorts and trainers and a t-shirt that's soaked with sweat. "You shouted?" Draco says, shifting his legs beneath the surface of the water. He catches sight of his firewhisky in Harry's hand. "You brought my drink, I see." He reaches out. "Don't finish it, you tosser."

Harry takes another sip then hands it over, crouching beside the tub. "You went for a run."

"And this is why you're an Inspector," Draco says as he lifts the glass to his lips. He takes a drink, and lets his head fall back against the tiles. His cheeks are flushed; his blond hair's lank and limp against his skin. Draco closes his eyes and breathes out, his thumb stroking along the rim of the glass. 

"Did it help?" Harry settles himself on the floor, leaning against the side of the tub. His arm hurts. He ought to take pain potions for it, but he knows he won't. A paracetamol or two will hold him off a bit longer. Perhaps he'll take something stronger when Draco falls asleep. 

"The run?" Draco drains the firewhisky, then hands the glass back to Harry. "Not really." He lets himself sink lower into the bathwater. It smells like almonds, Harry thinks. He can see droplets of oil floating on the surface.

"What's wrong?" Harry asks. He sets the glass down, shifts so his good elbow's on the side of the tub. His fingers trail in the warm bathwater. "It must have been bad if a run didn't make things better."

A soft huff of annoyed amusement slips from Draco's lips. "You know me well."

"I try." Harry lifts his fingers, lets the water drip off, splashing lightly into the bath. He looks over at Draco. "Want to talk about it?"

Draco's silent for a moment. "I'd probably need more firewhisky," he says finally, and he turns his head to look at Harry. He gives him a small, pained smile. "Just bad memories coming to the fore. The usual with Legilimency training."

"Your dad?" Harry smoothes a hand up over Draco's chest. For a moment he thinks Draco's going to shift away, but he doesn't. Instead he relaxes beneath Harry's touch. 

"Amongst other things," Draco says. He presses a foot against the edge of the tub and looks away.

Harry's hip hurts. He settles himself again, then lets his fingertips stroke down, over one of Draco's pebbled pink nipples. "I'm sorry." He knows better than to press. If Draco wants to tell him, he will. 

They're quiet for a moment, then Draco sighs again, and glances over at Harry. "I signed the paperwork yesterday for the Unspeakables."

"I know." Harry watches him. This is the first time they've talked about it. Draco'd put him off last night, told him everything was fine. Harry'd been too furious with Kingsley to push Draco on it. Perhaps he ought to have. Sometimes Harry's not certain that he's handling Draco well. He feels at a loss here, uncertain. He just doesn't want to make things worse, if he's honest. 

Draco smoothes a fingertip along the shower wall, cutting through the steam on the white tile. "They're making my employment with the Unspeakables retroactive." He glances over at Harry. "Probably causing no end of logistical nightmares for the human resources department."

Harry hides a smile. "Indubitably."

"It's just…" Draco bites his lip, then exhales, his breath stirring the water at his chest. "I won't ever be shown on the Seven-Four-Alpha roster." He doesn't look at Harry. "It's like that time's just wiped away." He sounds a bit broken, a bit angry. "As if none of it ever existed." He runs his hands over his face. "Circe, but more firewhisky would be brill just about now."

Harry's silent for a moment. He swirls his hand through the bathwater, letting it slide up to his wrist, wetting the cuff of his sleeve. "I'm not happy about it either, you know." He looks up at Draco. "Kingsley's giving the team a commendation next Friday. Zabini's getting the Gore Award." 

"Oh," Draco says. "He rang me up last night. I didn't have it in me to talk." Draco brings a knee up through the water, droplets falling through the soft splash. Harry can see Draco's prick, soft and rosy and limp against his thigh. He wonders if Draco knows how beautiful he is. Even lying here, tired and sad, he takes Harry's breath away. 

Harry pulls his gaze back up to Draco's face. "They won't be giving the commendation to you."

Draco looks away. His arm slides over his chest, but Harry can see the ragged shudder before Draco blocks it. "Of course not." Draco's voice is thin but steady. "It'd undermine their story about my transfer." He glances at Harry. "The one they say is meant to protect me, but I think we all know better."

And Harry can't answer. Draco's right. He knows that. Kingsley and Gawain and Saul--they're not concocting this lie to save Draco's hide. It's to keep the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World blemish-free. Harry can't look at Draco. "I'm sorry," he manages to say. He's angry, so fucking furious, and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to stop this. It's bloody unfair, and Draco's lost so much right now.

"I haven't," Draco says softly, and Harry looks up at him. Draco smiles faintly. "I heard it," he says, and he reaches out with a wet hand and touches Harry's temple. "You were practically shouting it in my head."

"But you have." Harry turns his face into Draco's touch, kisses his damp palm. "Your father, your job--"

"I still have you." Draco's voice is quiet. "And perhaps it's utterly mad of me, Harry, but I'd rather have this between us than be the highest lauded Auror in the force." His fingertips slide across Harry's stubbled jaw. 

"You've given up too much for me." Harry's heart hurts. It's all starting to sink in, what this quick shag in a shower back in February's cost Draco. And Harry, the one who ought to have been punished, has got off without blame. "Fuck, Draco, I should have never started this between--"

Draco sits up suddenly, the water splashing off him. "If you finish that sentence, Harry Potter, I will hex your bollocks off." He's breathing hard, his eyes bright. "You're the only thing that's getting me through all of this, and if you walk away from me--"

"I won't." Harry's hand is on Draco, touching his slick skin, calming him. "I promise."

"I'd die," Draco says, his voice a harsh whisper. "I couldn't--" He bites the words off, looks away, wetness on his lashes. "I need you, you fucking bastard." 

Harry leans over the edge of the bath, pulls Draco up against him. "I'm here," he says. 

Draco's fingers twist in Harry's shirt. "I don't want to think right now, Harry," he says. "I don't want to feel these things--" He breaks off, his face pressing against Harry's chest. He draws in an uneven breath. "Fuck the goddamn Ministry."

And Harry knows there are things Draco's not saying, things he doesn't want Harry to know. "Do you want to talk?" he asks once more, and Draco shakes his head. 

"Running didn't help," Draco says. "I went all the way to Primrose Hill and back." His fingers tighten in Harry's shirt. His voice rises a bit. "And it didn't fucking help at all."

Harry smoothes his hand over Draco's half-damp hair. He kisses Draco's temple. "What can I do?"

Draco stills. He breathes out, and then he pulls away. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright. "Fuck me." 

A shiver of want goes through Harry at the look on Draco's face. It's sharp and hungry, fierce and primal. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Harry thinks Draco ought to talk, to let himself feel these feelings that are twisting through him, but Draco's already shaking his head. 

"Please," Draco says, and Harry knows he's going to give in. Just as he has for the past few days. He can't resist Draco, can't tell him no. Not when Harry wants Draco just as much. Draco swallows; his fingers brush across Harry's jaw, down his throat to the Windsor knot of Harry's tie. He loosens it. "Fuck me until I can't breathe, Harry. I want to feel you inside of me tomorrow, want to close my eyes and remember what it was like to have you split my arse." He leans forward, lets his mouth drag lightly over Harry's. "I want to think of you when the memories come up. Not my father's lifeless face. Or my mother's tears." He hesitates and a shudder goes through him. "Or my uncle whispering threats in my ear."

Harry worries he shouldn't submit, worries that this isn't a proper response to grief for Draco, but his cock is tenting his work trousers and the willing, begging face of his boyfriend makes him want to do terrible things to him. Harry draws in a long, shuddery sigh. "Yes. Okay. But we're going to have to be creative. And I want you to have a safeword, just in case."

"My safeword is peacock. You know that." Draco smile widens into a lean, feral curve of his lips when Harry snorts. His fingers pull Harry's tie loose, sliding it from his collar. "Exactly how creative were you thinking?"

"I don't know." Harry considers, then breathes out as Draco works free the first few buttons of his shirt. "Would you object to a spot of magical bondage?" He's almost hesitant as he asks. "Or not. I mean. Suspension really more than anything."

Draco's eyebrow goes up. "You kinky sod." He doesn't sound offended, though.

Harry nods his head towards his arm in the sling. "It's just I can't fuck you properly with this, can I? Not with the way you thrash about." He leans closer, lets his hand settle on Draco's wet, naked side. "And whilst I do truly love having you ride my prick the way you've been lately, I'm rather keen to give you a proper stuffing tonight. If you'll have me."

"I see," Draco tilts his chin up, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, teeth following quickly before his lip pops free, pink and wet. "Well," he says a bit breathily, "what did you have in mind, Inspector Potter?"

Merlin but Harry's wanted to try this for a while with Draco, and he hasn't had the occasion until now. He shifts, rising up on his knees to lean further over the edge of the bath. Draco tugs Harry's shirt from his trousers, finishes unbuttoning it as Harry says, "Nothing intense. I'd just like to set up a sling, get you up in the air, maybe put a little motion spell on it to make it easier for me to fuck your brains out."

Draco shivers, and Harry can see the gooseflesh rise up on his arms despite the warmth of the bath. Draco's pupils dilate, his breath quickens. "All right," he says after a moment. "What do I do?"

Harry runs a thumb across Draco's soft lips, splitting them open until Draco mouths at the pad of Harry's thumb. Harry lets Draco nip, then suck at his thumb, watching the constrictions of his boyfriend's long, elegant throat as he does, thinking about how it's going to be to sink into the willing heat of his perfect arse. Harry's prick is already swelling just from thinking about it. He pulls his thumb away, a shudder going through him as it pops wetly from Draco's lips. "You do nothing. Stay here. I'm going to set up a few things."

Draco just nods and leans back in the bath. "Don't take too long," he says. "I need a good fucking."

That he bloody well does, Harry thinks. He pushes himself up from the floor, then walks to the door, his shirt unbuttoned. He turns back, looking at Draco's languid, pinkened figure in the water. "Oh," Harry says. "Get yourself ready. You might want to cast the prep spells." 

Draco's sharp breath goes straight to Harry's prick, making it press harder against the flies of his trousers. Harry walks into his bedroom, wondering what's he's doing, whether it's too soon to do anything like this, to take Draco this way, but the rush of lust in his veins at the thought of Draco suspended before him, his arse ready for Harry's prick, moves Harry quickly through the motions of getting ready.

Awkwardly, carefully, Harry strips off his shirt, leaving the sling for now. He needs to remind himself not to use the arm. They'd had a few moments over the weekend when Harry'd forgotten and the pain had been so intense it'd nearly softened his cock. He opens his toy chest with his left hand, fumbling through it until he finds what he wants. For a moment, Harry fiddles with the nipple clamps--Draco seemed to like those rather well, he remembers--but then he sets them back into the drawer. He doesn't want to introduce too much right now. 

He takes a fairly large plug out and sets it aside. He thinks about finding something for himself, setting a charm on it as well to fuck him whilst he fucks Draco, but he needs to stay focused and Harry knows damned well that would be too much for him. In the back corner of the bottom drawer, he finds the small, neatly folded package he's been looking for. When he lays it on the floor, it sits there, waiting for the proper charm. Harry remembers using this, how soft it is, of being fucked in it, of fucking. He catches his memories there, tucks them back away behind his Occlumens. Tonight is about Draco, after all. Not anyone else. Tomorrow he wants to remember what Draco felt like here in this room with Harry's prick splitting him wide. 

When Harry waves his wand, the package opens, unfurling on the soft, smooth rug beside the bed. Harry maps out the swing, then casts the charms, tethering it to the ceiling and making sure to allow plenty of movement. He's not sure what his house thinks about this--the lighting is still neutral, and he doesn't smell roses yet. Perhaps magical houses aren't programmed with a bondage setting, he thinks, a laugh swelling up into his throat. Not romantic enough, it seems. And that's bloody ridiculous, Harry thinks. Everything he does now with Draco is filled with love.

Harry can't help but smile.

He's just checked the weight-bearing and mused about cuffs versus open placement when he hears a noise behind him. Harry turns. Draco's standing, fully nude, in the doorway of the bath, his body slick and gorgeous to behold, his prick already starting to bob in front of him.

"I was getting impatient," Draco says softly, and Harry nods. This isn't a full scene. Tonight's more about practical technique and not being able to shag his boyfriend as vigorously as he'd like any other way.

"Is that for me," Draco's face is a bit hard to read, not shuttered exactly, but wary. He comes up to look at the swing suspended in the free space, then cranes his neck to look up at the ceiling where the spell has the straps tethered to the ceiling. 

"If you'd like," Harry says. "It's safe. I've put a cushioning charm beneath, but it won't come down." He's had enough practice over the years, he thinks, but he's not about to say that. He wants Draco to feel good, to want to share this experience with Harry.

Draco runs a palm over the soft, smooth black material of the sling. It's enchanted, pliant and supportive, and the fabric's lightweight but extremely strong. "This is nice," he says finally, and before Harry can say anything, Draco wraps a hand around the strap and hops up nimbly, his smooth arse pressing in to the edge of the sling.

"You've done this before, I take it?" Harry raises an eyebrow. Draco never fails to surprise him. Even when he thinks he knows what his boyfriend is going to do, something else happens to make Harry realise there's so much more to Draco Malfoy than Harry expects. He wants to ask him when and how, but those are stories for later, Harry thinks. Draco's asked to be fucked, and Harry's bloody well going to. 

"A little." Draco's smile is wry, and Harry thinks of Nicholas Lyndon and that smug look on the bastard's face. He clenches his fist and turns away before Draco notices. "But never with you," Draco says. He holds himself steady with hands wrapped around the straps, his arse over the edge of the fabric, pressing his beautiful cock upwards. The round, rosy tip is right in Harry's line of sight, and he wants to suck it.

Not right now, Harry tells himself. But Merlin he wants to.

Harry's drawn forward, holding Draco's gaze. "Lie on your back, arse on the edge," Harry says, and Draco twists his hips, the sling smooth and cooperative beneath him. He rolls back, then shifts his arse up to the edge of the black fabric. Whilst Harry watches, he bends his knees, bracing his ankles against the straps.

"Like this?" Draco asks, and Harry just nods, speechless.

Looking at the lean, articulated curve of Draco's body, Harry thinks he's never seen such a beautiful sight. There's a pink line across Draco's thighs where the edge'd dug in, and Harry longs to put marks into his skin and then kiss them better. That's also not for tonight, he knows, but something about the perfection of Draco's pale skin makes him want to rough him up. Harry wonders how Draco feels about spanking again, if he'd let him leave palm prints on him one day.

"I might," Draco says, looking up at Harry and taking his breath away. "Not now. But maybe soon."

Harry laughs. "It's terribly rude to read someone's mind, you know. Isn't there some sort of Legilimens etiquette?" He says it before he remembers Jake, and he catches his lip between his teeth, heat rising on his cheeks.

"It's not as if you're a closed book, Potter." But the smile on Draco's face is soft and open. "And I'm well aware you've fucked a Legilimens before." 

"You're hotter." Harry traces the swell of Draco's arse with his hand, stroking between his spread cheeks to the root of his prick, the softness of his balls. 

"Liar," Draco says, but he shifts, opening his legs wider, letting Harry touch him. "But I shan't complain."

Draco's fully hard and the dark pink head of his cock is wet and slick. Harry lets his thumb slide over it, pushing back Draco's foreskin, dipping the tip of his thumb into Draco's slit. Draco exhales, his thighs trembling, and Harry can barely breathe out himself. "Merlin, you're gorgeous," Harry says, his voice low and rough. 

Draco settles back on his back, hands clasping the far straps. His knuckles are tense, white. "Then fuck me," he says breathily. "And make me feel it, Harry." He looks up at Harry. "Please."

Harry summons the lube, dripping it through Draco's cleft, then spreading it, making Draco squirm with the chill of it against his skin. "I'm going to work you open, if you don't mind," Harry says, almost conversationally. "I rather like the view this way." He slides a fingertip along the rim of Draco's hole, loving the flutter of Draco's body, the awkwardness of trying to finger Draco open with his left hand. 

Draco bites his lip and arches his hips as Harry's finger slides into him, then another. Harry twists them, and Draco groans. "Fuck, Harry." His eyes are bright, his body tense. "Fuck, I'd let you do anything to me, you know."

"You're such a beautiful bastard, aren't you? God, Draco, the things you make me want to do." Harry's almost blind with lust. This boundlessness, this trust is terrifying and elating. He settles for reaching for the plug on the bed, working it into Draco, fucking it back and forth into Draco's body until Draco's taking it easily, twisting his hips, rolling them into each thrust Harry makes until Harry pulls it out completely. Draco whimpers. "That's not--"

"Hold on." On a whim, Harry visualises and then summons a larger dildo, a thick black toy he picked up in one of the shops in Luxembourg. He holds it up. "This okay?" 

Draco looks at the heavy length in Harry's hand, his face flushed. He hesitates, then says, "Yeah. I think so." Draco presses his eyes shut as Harry stretches him with it first, slowly fucking the smooth bulbous head of the fake prick into Draco's already widened hole, letting Draco feel the thickness before Harry presses it further, adding more lube until Draco's begging and shifting, his prick slick against his belly. It's a larger toy, difficult to take, and Draco's groaning. "You can do it, love," Harry says, and he presses his mouth to the curve of Draco's calf. He's never seen Draco like this, so open, so willing. "Open that pretty pink little hole of yours. I know you just want to be fucked, don't you?"

"Yes," Draco hisses, his body accepting more of the toy. He gasps, trying to push himself against the press of the silicone prick into him and failing. "I do. Oh Merlin, I do just want to be fucked."

Harry plays with the dildo, letting it go further and further into Draco's body. He doesn't want to stretch him out too much, but it's a wonderful visual, Draco pink and eager for Harry, spread out and letting his body open, letting himself go.

After burying a good six or seven inches in Draco's arse, Harry stops pushing forward, letting the dildo bob in and out a little. He braces it with his leg to hold it steady, Draco's body still straining around it, several inches away from flush with the flared base, then reaches forward, stroking Draco's cock with his hand. Draco cries out, his neck arching as Harry slides Draco's foreskin over his cockhead, gathering it in his palm, rolling it across his slick prick.

"Jesus. Fuck. Fuck me, Harry." Draco's voice is thick, throaty, and he's barely able to speak. His pale chest is flushed and his hair is already sex mussed and wild. "Please."

Harry pulls the dildo out of Draco's body and tosses it to the floor. He'll clean later with spells, but for now, he needs to get inside Draco immediately. Opening his flies left handed, Harry palms his own rock-hard erection, covering it with slick lube, then lining up to the soft, pink circle of Draco's arsehole. 

He presses inside easily, Draco's body stretched to accommodate him. Harry groans as he sinks all the way home, Draco warm and soft beneath him. He stops, trying to get control, his body shaking, desperate. He loves being inside of Draco like this. He's missed the feel of fucking, of being slotted so deep in Draco's arse, of being able to lean over Draco, to see him move beneath Harry like this. 

"Fucking hell," Harry breathes out, and Draco laughs, but there's a ragged rawness to the sound. 

"I'm waiting, you wanker," Draco manages to say, and Harry sets a quick pace, the careful motion of the sling allowing him to thrust in and out whilst watching Draco writhe beneath him, taking his cock, cursing and biting his lips. 

Harry says a quick rocking spell, one that he'd learned in Amsterdam on a particularly wild weekend a year or two after he and Gin broke up, and the sling begins to move on its own, impaling Draco on Harry's cock.

"Oh. Fuck. Oh. That's--" Draco's breath catches and his shoulders press back against the sling. "That's good." He's so turned on, and Harry knows he won't last much longer. Harry whispers the spell modification, and the motion picks up, bobbing Draco on his dick rapidly. The friction is incredible, and the pace is faster than Harry could usually achieve without much more effort. Draco's body is open and wriggling, his thighs shaking and spread, allowing Harry to thrust into him.

And then Draco's mind opens up to Harry. It's almost too much, the feelings that swell over him, the lust and the love and the fear and the anguish. Harry can barely tell them apart, and they twist and roil beneath the surface of his mind, everything that Draco's feeling, and he's looking up at Harry, his mouth open, his face flushed and beautiful, and Harry's never loved anyone as much as he loves Draco Malfoy at this moment. 

"Please," Draco says, his voice soft and small, and Harry grips Draco's thigh with his good hand, and he thrusts harder, his eyes fixed on Draco's face, letting his own thoughts merge with Draco's, letting Draco feel all of his love, all of his worry, all of his need. 

Draco closes his eyes, his body shuddering. "Harry," he says, almost in wonder, and Harry _knows,_ can tell by the way Draco's emotions sharpen, crystallize, by the sharp bursts of pleasure exploding through Draco's mind, echoing in Harry's body. 

And then Draco shouts, a rough, reedy cry as his body clenches around Harry, and Harry fucks him through it, watching as Draco's spunk spatters across his belly, and then Harry lets himself go, lets his hips pound into Draco's arse, lets his body give in to the tremors that are shaking them both. 

Harry's body jerks, arches back, and he can feel Draco in his mind, whispering for him to come for him, pulling up a memory of their first fuck, of how it had felt to have Harry inside of him. And with a cry, Harry's coming, filling Draco's body with his spunk, falling forward against Draco's spread thighs, barely able to keep himself upright. 

Somehow, Harry waits until the last tremors have shaken him to stop the spell. They're still, gasping, Harry looking down at Draco, wondering how he'd managed to end up with such a beautiful man in his bed.

"Just lucky, I suppose," Draco murmurs, his voice a whisper, his eyes barely open, but he's smiling, and Harry can't help but laugh. 

"Wretch," Harry says. He breathes in slowly, then he gently pulls out, watching as his softening prick slips free from Draco's arse. He strokes Draco's hip. "Do you want me to levitate you over to the bed?" His own voice is thick in his throat.

Draco shakes his head, drowsy. "I think I can make it."

Harry helps him out of the sling with his good hand, letting Draco wrap his arms around Harry's neck and stepping him over to the bed. Draco's legs are shaking, and Harry knows he'll be sore in the morning. He casts a cleaning charm on both of them, then helps Draco slide beneath the duvet.

"That was amazing," Draco says, eyes closed, his hair spread out across the pillow. His face is peaceful, serene even, and Harry doesn't want to do anything but kiss him and make everything better. Draco breathes out. "Do I smell roses?"

Harry inhales. "Yeah." A small smile curves his mouth. "Fucking house."

Draco curls up beside him. "Your house likes me, Harry Potter."

"My house adores you," Harry says. He presses a kiss to Draco's temple. "So do I."

"Good." Draco smiles through a small yawn. He rests his hand on Harry's belly. "I'm rather fond of being adored."

Harry brushes Draco's hair back from his forehead. "I know," he whispers, and he's not surprised when the lights in the bedroom dim.

They lie next to each other, Draco hovering on the edge of sleep, Harry stroking him gently, helping him come back into his body. And when Draco finally falls asleep, Harry slides out of the bed, then pulls on a pair of joggers and pads down to the kitchen for tea.

To be honest, Harry's not just sure what happened. He feels open, raw, and strangely uncertain. He knows Draco wanted rough sex, wanted to be fucked until he'd lost control, but Harry's worried that it might not be the best for him, that he's only sinking his grief into pleasure and that Harry's only aiding him in hiding away from his feelings.

But fuck if Harry doesn't want to do it again.

He sits silently at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in front of him, staring off into nothing. 

Harry wonders if Draco will regret it tomorrow, if he'll be horrified at how much he'd let Harry see, how deep Harry'd gone into how Draco's emotions. It frightens Harry, the fury of feelings that are twisting through Draco. Harry doesn't know what to do with them, how to help Draco through any of this.

It feels like hours before Harry stirs; it can't be more than forty minutes at most. His tea's gone cold; he pushes the dregs away. 

Slowly he walks back upstairs. Draco's still sleeping, and for the first time in days, there's no furrow between his brows. The lights in the room are barely on, and Harry can hear the eaves murmur when he slips back into bed. 

"Yes, I know," Harry says, looking down at Draco's pale face. "I'm worried about him too."

The house creaks and sighs before it settles around Harry, the last sconce flickering off, the only light in the room coming from the moon outside the window.

Draco shifts, rolls towards Harry, a soft murmur on his lips. Harry lies beside him, his hand on Draco's hip. He'd do anything for this man, he realises. Anything at all.

It's well after midnight before Harry slips into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with images of Draco.

***

"It's been some time since I've seen you, Monsieur Potter," Freddie says, taking the chair across from Harry. She settles a cup of tea in a delicate saucer on the small table beside her, then looks up at Harry. "You're doing well?"

Harry doesn't quite know how to answer. He'd been glad Freddie'd been able to fit him in her schedule, here at the start of her Wednesday, even if it meant he'd had to leave Draco sleeping back in Grimmauld Place. It's early for Harry, just gone half-six back in London. Kreacher's promised to wake Draco before Harry gets home, but Harry doesn't know if he'll remember. And to be bloody honest, Harry's cranky, which annoys him because he ought to be blissfully shagged out. But he's sore from last night and tired from a lack of proper sleep, and he doesn't want to have to go back to Grimmauld and dress for work. Harry's not certain he has it in him to face the Ministry today. Not that he has a bloody choice. He turns his cup of tea on the arm of his chair, then takes a sip. It's milky and bitter, the way he likes it, and he feels a bit more human. For a moment, at least.

"Things have changed some," he says after a moment. He looks up at Freddie. "The bloke on my team…" He trails off. 

"Ah yes." Freddie leans back in her chair, crosses her legs. "The one with whom you're having the liaison amoreuse."

Harry nods. He supposes that's one way to describe what he and Draco are doing. "We're together now. People know." He chews on his lip. "He's not under my command any longer, so that's good."

"But a change nevertheless," Freddie says. 

"Yeah." Harry watches the lace curtains billow out a bit as a puff of breeze comes in through the half-open window. The courtyard's bright and sunny today, and even this early in the morning the air's warm and a bit close. "I miss having him around, even if I can go home and see him at night."

Freddie takes a sip of her tea. Her dark curls bounce a bit as she dips her head. When she pushes them back behind one ear, Harry can see the streaks of grey at her temple. "So you're living with him." Her gaze meets Harry's. "That's a large step, monsieur."

"It's not like that," Harry says, but he thinks maybe it is. He runs a thumb around the rim of his teacup. It's fragile and delicate, the sides painted with bright pink roses. He thinks it looks odd in his fumbling, large hand. "We haven't moved in together. Not really. It's just he's staying at my house because his dad died, and it's hard for him to be alone with his mum." When he puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous. Harry doesn't even want to add the part about his bloody house being arse over tit for Draco as well. He'd rather not have Freddie recommend him for the Janus Thickey Ward, after all. Or whatever the French equivalent might be.

"Is it?" Freddie quirks an eyebrow at Harry. "Your lover...he wants this?"

Harry frowns at her. "Why wouldn't he?" It comes out more defensive than he means it to. 

Freddie doesn't say anything; Harry looks away again. It's a question he's been asking himself. If he's pushing Draco too hard, if being at Grimmauld Place together is too much, too soon. If he's taking advantage of Draco being in a vulnerable place to ease his own loneliness in that big house. If it's just another instance of Harry running away from himself, losing his fears in someone else's body. 

If his sodding house itself is pushing them together in ways it shouldn't be. He studies his teacup, watches the way the milk swirls inside it.

"Harry," Freddie says gently, and Harry sets his teacup aside, leans forward, his left elbow on his thigh. He breathes out, and the tightness across his chest eases a little, his slinged arm still aching a bit. 

"It's just…" Harry presses his lips together, looks down at his hand, resting on one knee. His fingers had been deep inside Draco last night; he can still feel the clench of Draco's body around them. "I don't know what to do for him sometimes. I try to be there; I listen when I can, but it's hard. I don't remember--" His voice catches in the back of his throat. "I don't remember what it's like to lose a parent. I've just...never had them. And maybe I've been envious of people who did." He stops, and he looks at Freddie. "Christ, when Dra--" He catches himself. He doesn't know why, but he'd rather not use Draco's name. Even here. "When my boyfriend would whinge about how awful his dad was--and he really was a complete bastard shit, I'm not discounting that…" Harry worries at his lip again, then sighs. "Sometimes I'd think, well at least you have a dad, yeah? Even if he's fucking evil incarnate." Except he doesn't think Lucius Malfoy was. Harry thinks Lucius Malfoy was a weak man who had no damned idea how brilliant his son was. Then again, Harry hadn't either. Not until recently. He wonder if that puts him on par with the bastard. 

"That's not surprising," Freddie says, her blue eyes gentle. "For someone who didn't grow up with a parent."

Harry shifts, rubs his thumb across the thin wool of his trousers. He still feels like a shit. "Except now he doesn't." He looks up at Freddie, and adds, "Have a dad."

She gives him a faint smile. "So I presumed." Freddie takes another sip of her tea. "Except he does still, in a way, doesn't he? He has those memories of his father. Perhaps some good, perhaps some bad. But yet he still has them, oui?"

"Yeah." Harry falls silent, then he sighs. "It doesn't make me feel less of an arsehole, though." He runs a hand through his hair, sits back in the chair. "He's still grieving, and I'm half-resentful. Doesn't that make me a right twat?" 

Harry wonders if he can even admit this to Draco. If he even wants to. If he even should. He watches steam curl from his teacup next to his chair, thinks about sitting in the kitchen of Grimmauld last night, worried about Draco. About whether Harry was actually helping him. He hadn't even told Draco he was coming to Freddie today. He'd just left a note in case Draco woke up. He doesn't know why. It'd just felt odd to talk to Draco about coming to a Mind Healer. Especially with everything Draco's going through. He sighs.

"It makes you human," Freddie says, and she's studying him with those sharp blue eyes of hers. "And it can be rather difficult to watch someone close to you go through the loss of a parent. You care for that person. You want them to be happy, but there's nothing you can do that can change the fact that someone important to them is gone."

"Except fuck him," Harry mumbles, and at Freddie's raised eyebrow, Harry shifts uncomfortably. He hadn't meant to say that. Except perhaps he had. It's not as if it hasn't been on his mind.

"He wants sex," Harry admits after a long pause. "A lot. He says it helps him not to think, and that worries me. He ought to be thinking, right? Not just numbing himself with orgasms?" He can feel his face heat, but he doesn't look away from Freddie's gaze. 

Freddie's silent, and then she sighs. "Perhaps. But with an exception. When did his father die?"

"Two weeks ago tomorrow," Harry says, and Freddie's face softens. 

"Your lover," she says, "is still in an emergency stage of grief, I suspect. The shock hasn't entirely settled for him, and he's, perhaps, not ready to deal with the emotions his father's death may be bringing up. It's not up to you to decide when he's ready to move to that point. Everyone grieves in their own way, Harry. What you have experienced at the loss of friends and family may not be the same as his. Give him that space. If he wishes to fill it sexually, then support him in that as you feel you can. He shouldn't push you into something you'd rather not do--"

Harry knows his face must be scarlet. "It's nothing like that." He clears his throat. "I'm not objecting to the sex." Christ is he not. In the least. "I've just been worried about him. And about whether or not I'm…" Harry hesitates, searching for the right words. "Using him, I suppose?"

Freddie gives him a faint smile. "You're not. And ease your mind about your lover. If it's six months down the road and he's still reacting in the same manner, then you might address it. But for now, he's turning to you physically because he can. Because he needs to. Because you give him something no one else can. A comfort, of sorts." Freddie's round face is kind. Gentle. "There's nothing wrong with sexual intimacy, Harry. And a sexual touch can be very powerful when one is experiencing intense emotions."

Something unravels a bit in Harry. He thinks of Draco last night, of the fierce abandon that Draco had given himself into. Of what Draco had let him feel. Of how beautiful Draco looks beneath Harry. Of how Harry would do anything to take the furrow of grief away from Draco's brow, of how soft and relaxed Draco had been when Harry's come back to bed. "I love him," Harry says, and he folds his good arm across his chest, over the sling. He laughs, a bit ruefully. "It's probably mad of me."

"Love is always a bit of madness, is it not?" Freddie picks up her teacup again. "That's the beauty of it, that wild rush of feeling that makes you certain you've lost a part of yourself, that convinces you that your mind's gone...how do you English say it? Round the twist?" She smiles, wider this time. "Love him, monsieur. Wildly. Completely. With all your heart, if you can. Give yourself into it, because love, real love, however long it lasts, is worth it." Freddie leans forward, her eyes soft. "Is this real love, Harry? Is this boy the one?"

The question takes Harry's breath away. He knows he loves Draco. Is certain of it. But is it real? Could he spend the rest of his life with Draco? "I don't know," Harry says after a long moment. He looks up at Freddie, and he knows his emotions are written across his face. He doesn't care. 

Harry takes a deep breath and says, his heart pounding in his chest, his voice barely above a whisper, "But, Christ, Freddie, I fucking hope he is."

And Freddie just smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> And just wanted to put up a reminder that the chapters will be shorter and more numerous this fall! This is the second of fourteen. The next chapter should be up on Sunday, September 10th.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jake isn't sleeping, Pansy isn't telling, and Harry isn't getting away with not taking his potions any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, you are wonderful and I hope you enjoy this little chapter as much as I did. Things are starting to settle a bit IRL, though they're terribly busy still, and I believe this might be mirrored in the Special Branch. Shout outs to sassy-cissa for her cheerleading and unflagging love and to noeon for everything else. An eggplant, wet kisses, and several head-sized split plums go to our resident perverts, I mean, dearest friends on the drarry squad <3

Jake hasn't been sleeping well. 

He tells Martine it's the late July heat keeping him awake when he meets her in the foyer of the Woolworth Building Thursday morning with an iced coffee clenched in his hand--not one of the hipster small ones, but a plastic cup from Starbucks half the size of his head. He thinks she knows better, judging from the sceptical shake of her head as they ride up the elevator to the MACUSA Auror offices. Still he doesn't want to admit to anyone, much less Martine, for Christ's sake, that he's been waking up hard as fuck halfway through the night on a regular basis, thoughts of acres of smooth brown skin and soft, breathy, swallowed gasps drifting through his dreams. 

It's been nine days since Blaise went back to London. Jake knows. He's been counting. Well. Eight days, twenty-two hours and some change, if you want to be precise. At least Jake's not pathetic enough to be counting the minutes. He's surprised by himself as it is; Jake had honestly thought if he fucked Blaise, he'd be fine. That it'd just be a fantastic rebound fuck to get his head back in the game after Harry screwed him over, that he'd get Blaise out of his system, be able to breathe out and relax a bit, not wondering what it felt like to be inside that gorgeous arse, that he'd at least be able to stop missing Harry, stop obsessing about what his asshole ex was doing with--and to--Malfoy.

The only thing Jake had been goddamn right about was the last bit. 

Now he thinks about Blaise constantly, not Harry. It's classic transference, Jake's certain. That's the problem with rebound fucks, he tells himself. Sometimes the emotions get tangled up, pushed onto someone new. A few days, a few weeks, and he'll be fine again. He just has to make it to that point. 

Fucking goddamn sleeping without waking up with a hard-on he could pound nails with would probably help. In the meantime, he has a text from Blaise still waiting unread in his cell phone. Jake's been too afraid to open it; he can't reply back. Not yet anyway. Not until whatever this is that's making his skin prickle and cock swell every time he thinks of Blaise goes away.

The elevator doors open, and Martine slides past him, her short hair rumpled and dark. Jake's uncharitably certain that he sees a bit of silvery grey hair peeking through at her temple. "You're not fooling anyone, mon ami." She looks back at Jake, her face oddly sober. "Tu es fuckée, and it's that boy, I'm sure."

Jake starts to protest, but what's the point? Instead he just shrugs and says, "It's just sex. Can't help it if I'm horny and he's hot."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, putain." Martine gives Jake a half-smile as they make their way down the corridor towards the MACUSA Auror bullpen. "And don't listen to me. I'm just the one who has to put up with you moping about because you're too fucking stupid to pick up the phone and call the asshole." 

What Jake wants to tell her is that he's terrified to. He and Blaise, they'd left things loose, hadn't they? They'd fucked, it was great, no strings attached. Jake doesn't know what he'd do if he called Blaise and he didn't pick up. Or blew Jake off, and why wouldn't he? Blaise is fucking gorgeous, and Jake's...Jake. Not half-bad in the looks department, but not part goddamn Veela, either. And Jake knows how Veelas are. Monogamy isn't necessarily their strong suit, not until they bond with someone, and even then...well. Jake's not that hung up on monogamy himself, if he's honest. Harry wouldn't have even been a problem for him if the asshole hadn't obviously fallen for Malfoy and then tried to lie to Jake about it. 

And that still aches a bit. Jake thinks it might for a while. He'd like to pretend otherwise, to tell himself that Harry hadn't left him wounded, with a scar that Jake suspects he'll always have. It's mostly his pride, he supposes, but he'd loved Harry in his own way, and it'd been two goddamn years for what? Harry'd never looked at Jake the way he looks at Malfoy. He'd never bothered to upend his life for Jake, not really. Even those couple of months Harry was living here, he'd had one foot out the door, and Jake thinks he'd known it even then. 

Jake isn't a sentimental ass. He's good with a rough fuck and a great night where everyone comes and no promises are made. But if he's honest with himself, he's fucking jealous of Harry. Jake wonders what it'd feel like to be that in love with someone, to know that you'd do anything for them, that you'd move the goddamn world for them if you could.

But Durants aren't made for that kind of love, Jake thinks. Just look at him and Eddie.

There's another worry. Jake hasn't heard from his brother since that last night Eddie'd shown up in his apartment. Not that Jake expects to, really. Eddie goes months sometimes without checking in, but this feels different. Jake's worried about Eddie, worried that Eddie'll get his damn fool self killed doing something fucking stupid, and that maybe Jake wouldn't even know. Ever. There hasn't been a trace of Eddie on any of the Auror watchlists; Jake's been having Espinoza keep him up to date on the sly. It's like Eddie's disappeared into the wind, and Jake can't help but be concerned. He'd promised their mama he'd look after his feckless older brother, after all. 

"Hey, boss," Espinoza says, looking up at him as he passes her cubicle. "Goldstein's still pestering us for another go-around with Eustace Fawley in the interrogation room--"

Jake swears, cutting her off. "Hasn't that asshole gone back to London yet?" It's not that he dislikes Goldstein; he rather likes the guy, if he's honest. But he's tired of goddamn Brits and their posh accents hanging around his fucking office, making him think about things he'd rather not.

Espinoza swivels in her chair, her dark brown hair loose around her shoulders. She gives Martine a sideways look as Martine sets her coffee cup on the desk beside Espinoza's.

"Don't look at me," Martine says. "Fucker's in a hell of a mood." She drops into her desk chair, her knees spread, arms folded over her chest, her gaze going to Jake, then back to Espinoza. _Zabini_ , she mouths. 

"Oh," Espinoza says, and the look she gives Jake is sympathetic. 

"Fuck off, both of you." Jake leans against Espinoza's cubicle wall. "Alms, what the hell does Goldstein want?"

Espinoza shrugs. "Says he needs another go at Fawley." She taps a pen against her desktop. There's a stack of files perched a bit precariously against the back of the desk. Espinoza frowns at them. "I told him we were already going to throw the book at the bastard, but he says he needs more from Fawley for another case he's working back in England."

Jake sighs. "Fine. Clear him for that, but have Grimsditch or McGillicudy sit in with him. And for fuck's sake, find out when he'll be out of our hair. I'm getting goddamn sick of London fucking around with our process."

"Sure, boss." Espinoza exchanges a glance with Martine who shrugs and swings her chair back towards her own cubicle. 

"You weren't saying that when you were sticking your dick in London, were you?" Martine says, almost under her breath, and Jake scowls her way. 

Before he can snap back at her, though, he hears his name being called across the bullpen. When he turns, Tom Graves is standing on the steps just above the warren of cubicles, looking at him. Graves beckons him with a quick, curt curl of his fingers. The Director of Magical Security doesn't look happy.

"Someone's in trouble," Espinoza says lightly, but there's an undercurrent of worry in her voice. 

"It's fine," Jake says. "He probably just wants to shout at me for going over budget on something." He sighs. "Again." 

Still, he's uncertain as he makes his way across the bullpen. "Tom," Jake says, as pleasantly as he can, taking the steps up to the mezzanine just above the cubicles. 

Graves is in shirtsleeves, his dark red Ilvermorny stripe tie slightly askew, his arms folded over his chest. He isn't smiling. "Walk with me." 

That never bodes well. Jake falls into step alongside Graves. They're both silent for a moment, then Jake says, "Did you need something?"

"In a way." Graves turns the corner; Jake follows. Graves waits until they're far enough away from the bullpen to say, rather mildly for him, "You've been having Espinoza leak info about your brother."

Jake doesn't bother to deny it. "As I understand it, there isn't any info about Eddie."

Graves gives him an even look. "I could actually make a federal case about that, Jake."

"You won't." Jake glances over at Graves. "Is that what you wanted to talk about? Because we could have done that in the middle of the bullpen--"

"I'm taking you off the Godunov follow-up," Graves says, cutting him off. 

Jake's surprised. "I thought that was a priority?" Graves had thrown that at his team last week as part of the Fawley case. Not that Jake's had any goddamn luck on that front. Godunov's decamped somewhere even Martine's not been able to trace, and they've had a shit time in trying to work their way through the financials. Godunov's family has enough shell corporations to tie up their investigation for weeks if not months. The only bit of information that even might be useful that Jake's uncovered is that somehow the Godunov family holds a forty-eight percent share in Picquery Apothecary down in Savannah. But he's a bit hesitant to dig too deep into that particular connection lest he uncover something that ties Eddie a little too closely to all this mess. Jake knows it's there. He just doesn't want to make it too official. 

Graves turns down the hallway that leads to his office. "I've got something else that needs your attention." They walk past Angelica's desk. "Hold my meetings for the next half hour," Graves says, and Angelica just nods. She looks a bit unsettled. A bit pale. Graves hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. He glances back at Jake. "I'd like to tell you that you've the option of saying no to this," he says after a moment, "but you don't."

That sounds ominous to Jake. "Right," he says, and he studies Graves' face. It's sombre and sober, and something about the way Graves isn't quite looking at Jake's face makes Jake fucking uncomfortable. "What aren't you telling me?"

"A hell of a lot," Graves says, but his mouth quirks up on one side. "You're not quite eyes-only classification status."

"Might as well be." Jake keeps his voice light. "So what are you wanting me to do, Tom? Something a bit illegal or amoral?"

Graves smile widens a little more. "Maybe a bit of both?" He pushes open his office door and strides in, Jake on his heels. "Gentlemen," he says, and Jake's attention is drawn towards the tall Pakistani man unfolding himself from one of the chairs in front of Graves' desk, his Auror uniform pristinely pressed. 

"Hassan Shah," Jake says, and he smiles. "It's been a few weeks." 

Shah takes Jake's hand between his. "Durant." He looks tired, deep lines etched into his brown face. "Good to see you, mate."

And then there's another movement from the other chair, a shifting of a body, turning, not quite rising. Broad shoulders, dark brown skin, an amused expression on his face. "Unspeakable Durant," Barachiel Dee says, his hands folded over the head of his cane, and Jake stills, suddenly understanding Angelica's expression, his hand half-outstretched.

Dee doesn't take it, and Jake lets his hand fall to his side. 

"Mr Dee." Jake looks between them as Graves moves around the corner of his desk, takes his seat. Jake sits in the empty chair beside Shah. He feels awkward, knows his cheeks are flushed. He can't quite meet Dee's curious gaze; all he can think about is the way Dee's grandson had felt beneath his body, the soft, small sounds he had made as Jake's dick slammed into his gorgeous arse. 

Fuck, he hopes Dee can't see that particular mental image.

Graves leans back in his chair, a frown on his face. "Sergeant Shah and Mr Dee are here to make a formal request for your services." His gaze flicks towards Jake. "Again."

No wonder Graves is pissed off, Jake thinks. Jake hasn't even been back a month and the Brits want him again. "I'm not really certain why." He looks over at Shah. "Saul Croaker and Hermione Granger usually handle those particulars."

"I've been authorised to offer MACUSA and yourself monetary compensation," Shah says. He sounds a bit apologetic, a bit out of his league. Jake wonders how long he's been sitting here, playing Tom's mind games. He's fucking certain Graves didn't jump up at the request and come after Jake. That's not Tom Graves' style. 

Jake considers before he speaks. He doesn't really want to be dragged back to London any more than Graves wants to lose him again to the Brits. "I don't really understand the necessity of that," he starts to say, but then Dee snorts, and they all three look at the old man. 

"You know, boy," Dee says, and he's looking straight at Jake. "You've known since you heard the Dementors escaped again."

"Rodolphus Lestrange escaped," Jake says, but he doesn't look away from Dee. He'll be damned if he lets the old bastard think he's afraid. 

Dee's smile is bright and white and quick, just like Blaise's. "Don't be thick, Legilimens." He leans forward on his cane. Jake thinks he can see the faint crackle of magic from around the shaft. "You know they went with him, some of them. You've read the file."

Jake has, and it unsettles him that Dee knows that. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It means we need your help," Shah says, his voice quiet. "There's something going on with the other Dementors--"

"They're unhappy," Dee says. He tugs at his crisp white cuffs. Amethyst cufflinks sparkle at his wrists, deep purple edged with gold. They set off his dark purple cravat, the ends tucked neatly in his black pinstripe vest. "Unhappy Dementors are restless, and restless Dementors are dangerous." His gaze meets Jake's. "I can't control them all. Not by myself."

Jake leans back in his chair, his stomach twisting. "You have Legilimens of your own."

"None as good as you." Dee's eyes are a deep, tawny gold, even in the shadowed dimness of Graves' office. "You see the Dementors, Legilimens, as they truly are. If I'm to keep them settled until this mess is cleared, I need your assistance." 

"I already have a job." Jake looks at Graves. "I'm needed here."

Shah crosses an ankle over his knee. He looks young, Jake thinks, and fucking overwhelmed. Azkaban had been breached under his watch; Jake's certain the pressure on him at the moment is high, poor bastard. "Robards is willing to triple your usual consulting fee, yeah?"

Goddamn. Jake's a bit taken aback; he can tell that Graves is as well. The British Ministry must be desperate. 

"Luxembourg's breathing down your necks, I suppose?" Graves steeples his fingers, presses them to his chin. 

Shah hesitates, then shrugs, his irritation practically radiating from him, Jake thinks. "Not like that's top secret, is it?" He clears his throat, then adds, with only a modicum of politeness, "Sir." His jaw's tight; his whole body's tense. 

Jake's curious about that. Something's going on back at the Ministry. He thinks about prodding lightly at Shah's mind, but that'd be a bit unethical, wouldn't it? Besides, he doesn't really need to. He can put it together himself. Luxembourg's probably shitting itself over Lestrange's attack. The bastard might have taken out Brits primarily, but Lotte Marquandt lost her life too, and the attack was conducted on Belgian soil, within the confines of the International Wizarding Court of Justice. They have to be asking themselves how that happened.

And then there's the question of Dementors wandering about at Rodolphus Lestrange's side. Jake doesn't know the man, but he's guessing any Death Eater willing to go after his own brother-in-law like he did wouldn't really have qualms about ordering the Dementors to Kiss individuals. He looks over at Graves, drops his Occlumens just enough to let his thoughts drift into his boss's mind. Graves just nods, ever so slightly. 

Barachiel Dee's watching them both with those sharp, golden eyes of his. "You understand, I think, the necessity of maintaining calm amongst the Dementors." He leans forward in his chair, balancing on his cane. "There are some who wish to join their siblings. Controlling them is becoming more…" He frowns, considering, then says, "Challenging."

There's something else he's not saying. Jake's certain of that. Dee meets his gaze evenly, but his eyes flick ever so slightly towards Shah before returning back to Jake. Dee's eyebrow rises, just enough for Jake to get the message. Whatever it is that Dee wants Jake for, he's not told the Ministry the whole story, and that intrigues Jake more than he wants to admit. 

Graves runs his hand over his jaw, settles back in his chair. "So you want me to release my best Legilimens to come help you get your goddamn house back in order." He's watching Shah, not Dee, and Jake's glad of that. Whatever Dee's up to, Jake's not certain he wants Tom Graves aware of it. 

Shah's silent for a moment, then he sighs. "We're in a bit of a mither," he says. "Stretched thin ourselves, yeah? We wouldn't be asking if it weren't necessary." His mouth thins a bit at that. Jake knows it's the truth; Gawain Robards has obviously authorised Shah to give Tom Graves anything he wants, and Graves is well aware of that. He looks like the cat with the proverbial cream right now, and Jake's heart sinks. He knows that expression. When Graves gets whatever it is he wants, Jake'll definitely be out on the next Portkey to England again, no matter how much he protests. 

Goddamn it.

"Of course," Graves is saying, a bit of warmth creeping into his voice, and Christ, Jake knows to be suspicious of that. Shah's too green though, and Jake sees his shoulders relax. Fuck, Robards should have sent someone with more negotiating experience, Jake thinks. Harry, maybe, as awkward as that might be, but then again, Harry's probably busy with Malfoy. Jake doesn't even have it in him to be irked by that thought. Malfoy's lost his dad, after all. Jake just hopes Harry's not shutting him out right now, the way he always does when emotions get complicated. 

"So you'll agree then?" Shah asks, and Grave's smile widens, his gaze shifting towards Jake. Dee snorts softly from beside Shah.

"I didn't quite say that." Graves leans forward, his elbows on his desk, his shirt pristine white against the polished dark wood. "I scratch your back, you scratch mine, right?" 

Shah doesn't blink. "Yeah, I reckoned you'd say that." He crosses one booted ankle over his knee and flicks at an invisible piece of lint on his trousers. "You want information. I can give you that."

And Jake's a bit impressed, really. Shah goes up in his estimation. 

Graves eyes Shah, swiveling slightly in his desk chair. "How valuable?"

Shah reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small flash drive and holds it up. "All the data our Unspeakables have on the potions trade we're fairly certain ties Dimitri Godunov to the Abadzhiev family. Well mint, the whole of it. It'll help you build your case against him." Shah's mouth quirks up at one corner. "If you can ever find the mingin' bastard, yeah?"

Jake can practically see Graves salivate. He wonders who talked Saul Croaker into handing that particular info over. Hermione, probably. She's worked enough with Graves to know exactly what he'd be interested in. And if Tom Graves has been warned off Aldric Yaxley and his fucking family, then he's going to want to take Dimitri Godunov down instead. Jake shifts in his chair, wondering what the weather's like in middle of the North Sea in July. Probably cold as goddamn fuck still, knowing Jake's luck. 

Graves eyes the drive. "I'll want to verify that before I send Durant back with you." Once again, Jake half-resents that he's not being consulted in this decision, but he knows better than to object. Publicly, at least. 

Shah tosses the drive; it lands on Graves' desk with a soft, metallic thunk. "It's all yours."

"Angelica," Graves shouts, and a moment later she appears in the doorway. He waves her into the office, over to his desk; Angelica's footsteps are near silent on the thick carpet. Graves hands her the drive. "Get this to Alma Espinoza and have her verify the contents immediately." He turns back to Shah as Angelica slips out of the office. "I'll release Jake for a week to help."

"Might take longer," Dee says, his voice mild. 

Graves turns a sharp look on the older man. "Then after a week, we'll reassess. But for now, a week of Durant's time is what I'm willing to agree on."

"Fair enough," Shah says, and he glances at Jake. "If it's fine by you."

Jake just shrugs. "Not really certain I have a choice in the matter, man."

"Then I think we're done here," Graves says, standing. The others follow his lead, although Jake notices it takes Dee a moment longer to push himself to his feet, his face twisting, if only for an instant, in a grimace of pain. "I'm certain Angelica can find a comfortable spot for you gentlemen to wait until our verification is complete."

As dismissals go, it's fairly polite for Tom, Jake thinks, which can only mean he's certain he's one-upped the Brits. Jake wouldn't be so certain. If there's one thing he's learned about the Ministry through working with them over the years, it's that the whole damned place is filled with canny fuckers, and Jake's starting to think Gawain Robards has something else up his sleeve. Shah'd been prepared a bit too well for Jake's liking. 

He turns to find Barachiel Dee watching him, a small smile playing across his mouth. "I'll be pleased to work with you again, Legilimens," Dee says, and he studies Jake's face in a way that makes the skin between Jake's shoulder blades prickle with unease. Jake doesn't like how much Dee can see, even without Legilimency. And then Dee's smile widens, splitting his long, narrow face with an almost feral flash of white teeth. "I'm certain my grandson will be thrilled as well." 

And fuck but Jake doesn't half-wonder exactly what that means, what Blaise might have said to his grandfather. But Jake won't let himself flinch, won't let himself look away. "I hope Blaise is doing well," he manages to say, and Dee's eyebrow rises just the tiniest fraction. 

"Well enough," Dee says, but the look he gives Jake is careful, almost searching. For what, Jake doesn't know, but he's relieved when Dee finally turns away, towards Shah. "Lead on, Hassan, my lad," Dee says, and he's stiff when he moves, a bit slower than Jake remembers him being. Shah's careful with the older man, holding the door open for him, making certain he's steady on his feet. Whatever the Dementors had done to Dee when they'd broken free has left a mark on the man, Jake thinks, a bit unnerved by the thought. 

"Durant." Graves points a finger at Jake like he's an errant dog. "Stay."

Jake lingers beside the grouping of chairs in front of Graves' desk, waiting until the door closes behind Dee and Shah. When it does, he turns back to his boss, scowling. "Jesus, Tom, I've got too bloody much work to do here--"

"Shut the goddamn fuck up," Graves says. He rests his fists on his desk, leans on them, still standing. "Like I told you before you walked in here, you're going."

"I suppose it doesn't matter if that flash drive's even--"

"No." Graves cuts Jake off. "That's posturing and you fucking well know it." He frowns at Jake. "I don't trust the Brits, fucking special relationship or not. They haven't got their own goddamn house in order, and they know it. So if they get the chance to throw this shit on us--how I don't fucking know, but I've seen it happen before--they will. And Aldric goddamn Yaxley might have already given them cause." Graves rubs his hand over his face and swears.

Jake just looks at him. "I thought we weren't looking at Yaxley," he says, his voice careful. Even. "What with him being one of Quahog's major backers."

"We're not." Graves turns, paces behind his desk. "I'm not the one going down in history for imploding this presidency, Jake. Fuck that shit." He looks over, his eyes sharp and blue. "But if you don't think Gawain Robards or Saul Croaker isn't going to have one of his assholes digging into the Old Man from their end…" Graves shakes his head. "I want to know what they know."

And this, Jake realises, is where he comes in. "You want me to spy on them." 

"I want you to do your goddamn duty as an Unspeakable for the Magical Congress of the United States, you jackass." Graves runs his hands through his hair, and Jake thinks he looks unsettled, as much as Tom Graves ever can. "So yes. I want to know what they have on the Old Man, and I want to know if and when it's going to blow up in our fucking faces."

Jake's quiet for a moment, but he doesn't turn away. "One question," he says finally, and Graves' eyebrow goes up. "Aldric Yaxley. Are we protecting him for Sam Quahog's sake or are we actually going to follow up on anything London might know?"

Graves lets out a slow, unhappy sigh and glances away. He doesn't answer immediately, and Jake can see his shoulders tense. Jake's certain he's going to get a blow-off, going to be put in his place. Instead, Graves just fiddles with a few papers on his desk before saying, "I don't know." He looks at Jake. "I'd like to say yes, but…" 

"The destruction of an political administration is complicated?" Jake asks dryly, and Graves shrugs and glances away.

"Something along those lines, yeah." A muscle in Graves' cheek tenses. "So what I want you to do is to go to fucking England and do your fucking job. And if that means you bring me back shit on the Old Man, then that's what you do. You're not going to be friendly, you're not going to helpful. Got that, Durant?" Graves mouth thins out. "You're going to go over there, and you're going to bring back information. None of that shit you tried to pass off to me before."

Jake feels his cheeks heat. "It was all good intel, Tom."

"It was bullshit, and you know it." Graves drops into his desk chair again. He scowls up at Jake. "I let it slide back then because we didn't need it. But now?" An expression flits across Graves' face that Jake's never seen. He almost thinks it might be fear. "Knowledge is power, and I'll be goddamned if I'm not going to make sure we have all of both we can possibly gather. Do I make myself clear?"

"Absolutely, Tom." Jake doesn't like any of this, and the very fact that Graves is unsettled by it all doesn't give him any peace of mind. He draws in an uneven breath. "So I suppose I should go home and pack a bag for a week."

Graves nods. "Maybe two." He reaches for a stack of paperwork Angelica's left in the tray on the side of his desk blotter, then glances up at Jake. "I'm guessing they'll want to keep you a bit longer than I've allowed."

And that's how you play the game, Jake thinks. Tom Graves is a master of it. "Right." Jake turns, starts for the door.

"Jake." 

Jake turns, glances back. Graves isn't even looking at him; he's frowning down at the first document on the pile. "Yeah?"

"For fuck's sake, keep your dick in your pants this time." Graves gaze flicks up, but only for a moment. "You've got a goddamn job to do."

Jake's mouth tightens. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."

When he strides out, he lets the door slam hard behind him.

***

Pansy's sat at her workbench, turning Daisy's scroll between her fingers. It's nearly the end of the workday, and she's winding down her examination of the fibres and residue from the Portkey cabin Draco's father had been ambushed in. Most of them are already in the system; the techs in the Department of Mysteries are thorough, Pansy has to grant them that. But there are still connections to be made. Her eight years in the Auror force have taught her never to assume something new can't be found, even from old evidence.

She rubs her thumb along the seal of the scroll. Eventually she'll have to pass it on to her father. Pansy doesn't know why she's so hesitant, except there's something inside of her that's worried about how deep into this bollocks both her father and her sister are. Daisy's hiding something. Pansy'd known that in New York, that last evening. But she's not certain she wants to push further. 

The scroll's cool and slick against her fingertips. Pansy can feel the spark of magic across the parchment, the charm that's protecting it from being opened by anyone except Terry Parkinson. Pansy thinks she could break it, not that doing so would be easy. And if Daisy were smart--and Pansy knows damned well she is--she would have set a secondary charm on it to destroy the parchment before it could be read by anyone other than their father. 

Still. Pansy frowns down at the small curl of paper in her palm. She supposes she could just go and ask her father point-blank what he thinks he's doing. But her father knows how to evade her questions, and she's not certain she wants specific answers. Especially not any that might cause her to move against her own family. Draco may have had to bollocks to do it, but Pansy's fairly sure she doesn't. She can't imagine doing so, not really. 

And yet, here she is, having not yet delivered her sister's missive after being back in London for over a week. 

Maybe it's a test, Pansy thinks. Some sort of trial her sister's putting her through, to test her loyalty. But that's bollocks. Daisy wouldn't do that; she'd just ask Pansy bluntly what the fucking hell she thought she was doing. 

Pansy smiles. She can almost hear her sister now. 

She sighs, bites her lip. These are the times Pansy's not so thrilled about being a Parkinson. She wonders if her mother feels the same. Camilla's always been like Pansy in this regard, never interested in knowing the full details of Terry's business dealings. It's one of the few things they share. Daisy, though. She's always been thick as thieves with their father, and Pansy can't help but think that phrase might have some truth to it. Perhaps not thievery outright, but dodgy business deals aren't that different, at least in the eyes of the law.

And Pansy is the law. In a sense. 

Sometimes she wonders if her mother's discomfort with her work in the force has less to do with her distaste at Pansy's job and more to do with her fear of what Pansy might be forced to choose between if her father's business dealings come to light. It's not outrageous, Pansy supposes, but up until now the Parkinson name's been kept off the Auror radar. 

Until fucking Eustace Fawley.

Pansy curses her brother-in-law under her breath. Whatever he's done, he's fucked up. Badly enough that her sister's chosen to go on the run, and Pansy doesn't want to think about Daisy under Dimitri Godunov's thumb. She looks down at the scroll again. She also doesn't want to consider that Eustace may have been Daisy's patsy, that her sister might have been a hell of a lot more involved in Antonin Dolohov's plans than anyone suspects. 

Running away with Godunov hadn't helped any of that, Pansy's certain. The Americans aren't idiots. It won't take long before Boucher or Durant or Espinoza takes that leap, starts looking into Daisy as well.

If they haven't already. Pansy's been careful, kept an eye on the law enforcement databases, particularly the international ones, waiting to see if a request for information on her sister or her father comes through. So far, nothing, but Pansy knows that won't last. And then she'll have a choice to make, won't she?

Pansy presses her thumb to the scroll's seal, feels the thrum of magic that's trying to push her hand away. Her stomach hurts a bit; she tries to breathe in through her nose to settle it. That doesn't help. 

The fact is, Pansy knows, she'll do whatever she needs to do in order to protect her family. She understands that, deep down inside. As much as she'd like to be as brave as Draco, she's not. She loves her father and her sister dearly. Her mother too, as different and as alike as they both are. They're hers. They're all she has, and she knows they're not always perfect. She knows they've made bad decisions. All of them. But Pansy can't bear the thought of any of them in Azkaban, and she swears to Merlin and all the sodding Hogwarts Founders that she'll do whatever she must to keep them out of that hellhole. 

Seeing them there would tear her apart. 

That makes her a terrible Auror, she thinks. Pansy doesn't really care. Not entirely. 

When the door to her lab opens, Pansy slides the scroll into the pocket of her lab coat, then turns on her stool just as the guv steps in. 

"Parkinson," Potter says agreeably, stopping just inside the door. "Any precautions I should take?"

Pansy leans an elbow on the workbench. "You're fine as is." She watches as Potter closes the door behind him, then walks towards her. "What brings you down to the depths of magiforensicology?"

"Just checking in." Potter stops at the edge of the table, his hands in his pockets. He's smart enough to know not to touch anything. Pansy half-wonders if that's part of the Inspector's exam, given how often she has to remind Draco and Blaise both. "How's things?"

"Well enough." Pansy glances at the evidence bags and sample slides that are neatly lined up along the edge of her workbench. A file jacket's spread open with her paperwork on top of it. "Just a few more write-ups to go through."

Potter nods. "Anything interesting?"

Merlin but Pansy wishes. She shrugs. "Just the usual. Everything's identifiable so far except for a few bits of residue around the entrance to the Portkey cabin, but I'm going under the assumption that they can be traced to Lestrange. We'll see if that holds."

"You think he might have had accomplices?" Potter sits on one of the extra stools. He's in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up his muscular forearms, the white cotton bright against golden skin peppered lightly with dark hair; his right arm's still in the sling. He's lost his tie at some point during the day, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. With his hair rumpled he looks like a schoolboy, even down to the fading yellowish love bite just above his collarbone that Pansy gets a glimpse of when his shirt gapes open.

"I don't know," Pansy says after a moment. "I couldn't say with any certainty, at least not yet. But I wouldn't think it's out of the realm of possibility." She frowns, considering. "I mean, he did intercept the Portkey cabin inside the Court of Justice, so how exactly does someone escape from Azkaban and find himself in another secure location within half an hour, forty-five minutes?"

Potter nods. "Especially with Dementors in tow."

"Yeah." Pansy chews on her bottom lip, considering, then she looks up at the guv. "Luxembourg hasn't sent over any of the surveillance footage of the attack."

"None that I've seen logged in." Potter swivels a bit on the stool, going back and forth, the heel of his boot hung over the rung. "But I'm having Zabini and Whitaker put in another request for it." He glances over at the clock on the wall. It's nearly quarter to five. "It might even already be submitted."

Pansy snorts. "Just in time for them to ignore it." 

"Most likely." Potter gives her a wry smile. 

They sit quietly for a moment, both of them lost in their own thoughts, then Potter sighs. Pansy glances over at him. "All right, guv?" she asks, and she means it. Potter looks tired and a bit drawn. 

He doesn't answer; she just waits. She's learnt that it's better sometimes to give Potter a bit of space, to let him say whatever he needs to on his own time. She doesn't even look at him; she just shifts through the papers on her workbench. 

"It's fine," Potter says, and he runs a hand through his hair. "Just…." He shrugs. "You know. Everything."

Pansy glances over at him. "That's terribly vague."

"It's meant to be." Potter's mouth quirks a bit higher at one corner. "Just chalk it up to worry."

"About Draco." Pansy tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Potter nods. Pansy sighs herself. "He won't talk to Blaise or me, you know. Not really."

Potter hesitates, then he says, "He's having a hard time."

"Obviously." It annoys Pansy when Potter states what they all know. He's better than that. "But he doesn't have to shut the rest of us out."

"I know." Potter looks uncomfortable. He glances away, and Pansy feels a spike of irritation. She also doesn't like that he's taken her place. Blaise's place. They've known Draco since they were children, and now Draco's keeping them both at arm's length, wrapping himself up in Potter instead as if only Potter can comfort him. It makes Pansy's heart hurt, makes her furious with them both. 

"He's my friend too," Pansy says, and she knows she sounds petulant. Pained. She swallows past the sudden tightness in her throat, turns back to her stack of evidence bags. Arcturus Lipman will have her arse if she fucks them up before they get returned to the evidence room. She picks one up, makes sure the seal's back on it before she sets it aside.

Potter shifts on his stool. It creaks a bit. "He's trying, you know."

That's bollocks, Pansy thinks. "He won't take my calls." She looks up at the guv. "Blaise's either. And it's not like we can just pop over and force him to talk to us. Not any longer. Not whilst he's staying with you." And that irks her as well. She'd gone to Draco's flat two nights ago, determined to at least make him look her in the face. It'd been empty. Dark. Not even Narcissa's staying there any longer; Blaise had told Pansy he was fairly certain Draco's aunt had taken her in over the weekend. 

None of that's like Draco, and that worries Pansy. Potter wouldn't know that. Potter wouldn't understand that for Draco to push his mother away, to ignore his friends like this means that Draco's in a bad place. A dangerous place. 

One that Draco hasn't been in since just after the war, when they'd first started Auror training. 

Pansy'd been there for that. She'd shared her flat with him, had watched as he'd stopped eating, as he'd sunk into a deep depression, stopped talking to anyone, even her and their bedrooms had been a wall apart. The only thing he hadn't done was give up Auror training. Being on the force had pulled him through that rough patch, not to mention others. Like the time he'd sliced his bloody arm up after Althea had gone for him. 

There's still a part of Pansy that hasn't quite forgiven Althea for that. She's not entirely certain she ever will, as much as she's grown to like the cow.

Potter looks unhappy. "I'm not trying to shut you both out--"

"Then tell him to pick up his sodding mobile," Pansy says. She sounds harsher than she means to, and she sees the guv flinch. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Potter's voice is quiet. He rubs his thumb over his knee, the wool of his trousers shifting beneath his touch. "You're not wrong. I just…" He trails off, then says, "It's not easy to make Draco do things."

This Pansy knows all too well. "Sometimes you just have to force him into it," she says. "Shame him. He can be a stubborn prat."

Potter smiles a bit. "Understatement of the year."

"He's a Slytherin." Pansy just shrugs. "We can be known to be arseholes."

That makes the guv's smile widen. "It's what I like about the lot of you."

"Liar," Pansy says, but she keeps her voice light. She misses Draco. Terribly. "I hate that he's not here with us," she admits after a moment. "It doesn't feel right."

Potter looks away, but not before Pansy catches the pained expression on his face. "There's nothing I can do."

"Didn't say there was." Pansy picks up one of the fibre reports and stares at it blankly before setting it back down again. She feels uneasy. Unhappy. Like her skin's a bit too tight, like something's hovering over her unseen, an invisible sword of Damocles. "I just want to see him, I suppose." She wants to make sure Draco's all right, that he isn't getting too close to that point again where he'll end up in the bath, drunk and clutching his wand. Not over his fucking prat of a father. Not this time. 

"I'll do what I can," Potter says after a moment, and Pansy just nods. She knows he means it; she's just not certain Draco will pay any attention. 

And she can feel the scroll in her pocket, her own hidden secret from the guv, tucked away, waiting. Pansy feels guilty about that. She knows she should tell him, should show him, ask him what to do. She won't. He's far too Gryffindor for her to trust with her sister's ciphers.

They're silent, the emptiness of the room almost overwhelming between them, until Potter stands up. "Can you get me a report tomorrow on this?" He nods towards the pile of evidence. 

"Probably." Pansy thinks so at least. "I can try." 

Potter nods, and he starts towards the door.

"Guv." Pansy turns on her stool again, swinging her knees towards him. Potter looks back at her. "Your arm."

"What about it?" Potter seems uncomfortable, and Pansy wonders why. 

She frowns at him. "It's been two weeks. More than, really, so why aren't you out of that sling?"

Potter just looks at her. Pansy studies his face, her eyes narrowing. "I'm fine," he says, but she knows he's lying. She can tell from the small furrow of pain that's been between his brows for days. 

And then she knows. "You're not taking all of your potions," she says. "You idiot."

The guv doesn't deny it. "I have to be coherent," he says. "In case he needs me."

Pansy shakes her head. "Potter. Harry...." She exhales, trying not to lose her temper. "You can't make that choice. He wouldn't want you to. It's your wand arm. If you don't take care of it, you could lose functionality--"

"I won't," Potter says firmly. He catches her gaze, holds it. "I'm fine, Parkinson. Really."

"Bollocks." Pansy doesn't look away. "It's mad, you know. Have you even gone to the Healer--"

"You don't have to worry." Potter touches the sling. Winces just enough to make Pansy certain he's a fucking liar. 

"Guv," she starts to say, but he cuts her off.

"I'll want a full report of all evidence by tomorrow afternoon if you can," Potter says. "Whitaker and I are going in tomorrow morning to interview Dolohov, so if you've anything you think we should see before then, owl it to me tonight." 

Pansy wants to protest, but she knows it won't do any good. "Fine." 

Potter's face softens. "Thanks, Parkinson." He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. "Look, I'll talk to Draco tonight, yeah? See if I can get him to ring you, at least."

"That'd be brill." Pansy's tired. She doesn't know what to do any more. What to say. 

The guv just studies her, quietly for a moment, before saying, "I've read Goldstein's reports he's sending back from New York."

Pansy looks up. She doesn't want to think about Tony, about how he could destroy her family. "He's still there?" She hates the faint waver in her voice.

"Yeah." Potter drops his gaze, and she can tell he's heard it as well. Her cheeks go warm; she looks away. "It doesn't look good for Eustace. Oudepoort's probably in his future. And your sister's disappeared, hasn't she?" 

"I wouldn't know, guv," Pansy says, but it's a raw, harsh whisper. She can't look at him. 

Potter sighs. "If it makes it any better, Goldstein's downplaying that part of it all. But the Americans are after Godunov, who's disappeared as well. Are they together, Parkinson?"

She looks at him then, tries to keep her gaze even, her mouth from trembling. "I wouldn't know that either." The lie comes far too easily. Pansy never lies about work. She can't. Until now, it seems. 

The guv's just watching her, almost as if he knows. But when he speaks, it's not to give her a bollocking, to Pansy's surprise. He just says, "Well, if you hear anything from her, tell her to be careful. Stay the fuck out of the States for a bit."

Something twists and wobbles inside Pansy. Fear for Daisy, perhaps, mixed with an unexpected pride that she works with Potter, that he seems to understand the complexities of this for her. "Why?" she can't help but ask.

Potter looks grim. "Because Tom Graves is going to want a scapegoat. Especially if we're right about them not going after the Old Man." He runs his hand through his hair and sighs again. "Which, reading between the lines of Goldstein's report, I think it a strong possibility."

"Are we going to then?" Pansy asks. "Even now? Shacklebolt wants Lestrange--"

"And if there's not some connection between Lestrange and Aldric Yaxley I'd be bloody stunned," Potter says. "Gawain agrees. So yeah, we're focussing on Lestrange, officially, but I think it's worth prodding into the Yaxley family history. Don't you?" He gives her a steady look. "See if we can undermine the Godunov search."

Pansy smiles, small and slight. "I'd be in favour of that, guv." Circe, would she ever. Anything that could keep her family out of the line of fire, Pansy'll support. Even if it goes against the directive set by the Minister of Magic himself.

"I thought you might." Something slips on Potter's face, softens his expression. "Go home soon, Pansy," he says, his voice almost gentle. "And trust the rest of us to do what we can to protect yours, yeah?" He hesitates, then adds, "Well. As much as we can, at least. You're ours too." He meets her gaze, and Pansy nods, her heart aching a bit. She wants to do as the guv says. She's just not so sure he knows what he's offering.

"Thanks, guv," she says, her voice thick. "I'll try."

And then Potter's gone, the door snicking shut behind him, and Pansy's left with her stack of paperwork and her evidence files. She glances across the worktable, her lip caught between her teeth. It feels as if the weight of the world's resting on her thin shoulders, crushing her, and then she shakes her head, trying to breathe out. 

It'll all be fine, she tells herself. She pulls the scroll from her pocket, rolls it between her fingers again. 

Pansy has to believe that. What other choice does she have?

***

Harry wants to hold Draco's hand as they walk down the pavement, the heat of the summer sun still radiating off the concrete around them. He doesn't, though. Draco looks uncertain as they walk past the shops a few streets away from Grimmauld Place. Harry'd managed to coax him out, promising him dinner at Antonio's, just off Islington High Street. It's the first time since New York that they've been out in public like this, off on a date. If you could even call it that.

But Harry's in his best jeans and a crisp, white t-shirt beneath a lightweight olive green jacket that makes his eyes look brill, even if the line's still marred by his sling, and he's done his best to tame his curls. He glances over at Draco. His hair's pulled up in a knot on the top of his head. Harry likes how severe it looks, how it makes the angles of Draco's face seem sharper. More delicate in a way. 

"You're staring at me again," Draco says, but his mouth is a soft curve, and he seems more relaxed than he's been in days. 

"Can't help myself." Harry gives Draco a cheeky grin in return. "You're the best looking bloke on this whole street."

Draco throws a half-amused look Harry's way. "You're an idiot, Harry Potter."

"For you." Harry likes walking beside Draco like this, the bright green leaves of the trees arching over them in spots, the hustle and bustle of Islington around them. He lets his knuckles brush the back of Draco's hand, and he's surprised when Draco's fingers catch his, twining almost carefully between Harry's. 

Harry feels like a bloody teenager again, utterly mad for the man beside him. He won't say that, he tells himself. He doesn't want Draco to think him a complete fool. But still, Harry's missed this openness. He knows they can only really have it around Muggles right now. Neither one of them want to put their relationship on display within wizarding society. It feels too new, too fragile to subject it to the public scrutiny they'll face when the _Prophet_ or _Witch Weekly_ get hold of the fact that the Saviour of the Wizarding World's dating a former Death Eater. 

Christ but Harry hates the way they're both distilled down to nothing more than their adolescent actions. He wonders if the world will ever let either of them move beyond that, become the men they're meant to be, not the boys they once were. Draco had once told him it was difficult being Draco Malfoy, but Harry thinks it's just as hard to be Harry Potter, to live up to the impossible expectations the world places on him. He can't be that hero any more, the one they want. Perfect. Flawless. Untouchable. 

Harry doesn't want to be that boy. He never has. Freddie's helping him see that, one session at a time. Helping him understand that his life isn't for public consumption. That he can let himself be happy with Draco, that he can let himself be open. Trusting even. That he doesn't have to close himself away. 

It's fucking liberating, Harry thinks. 

When Draco's fingers slide from his, Harry misses their warmth. He doesn't protest, though. He knows it's harder for Draco to put himself out here like this. He has more to lose if someone sees them. 

Besides, London isn't New York, is it? It's home, not some fanciful place where no one knows them, no one cares. 

Antonio's is nearly empty at this hour. It's early still for dinner, and Delia waves at Harry as they come in. Only a couple of tables are taken; Harry leads them back one next to the brick wall, fairy lights draped over it. 

Harry hasn't been here since May, he realises. That night he'd left dinner with Ron when Draco had texted him, drunk and randy. How things have changed in just a few weeks, he thinks, taking his seat. 

"Your birthday's on Monday," Draco says, his elbows on the edge of the white-clothed table. "Mother's already reminded me twice." He laughs. "Once by firecall, once by owl." 

Harry glances up at him. "How the hell does your mother know when my birthday is?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Harry. Don't be thick. One." He holds up a finger. "Everyone in the bloody wizarding world has known your birthday since the first time you took out the Dark Lord as a baby. And two." Another finger goes up, long and elegant. "My family was rather entwined with said bloody mad Dark Lord for quite a while, after all, and there might have been a bit of an obsessiveness about a child who--how did it go? Was born as the seventh month dies?" 

"Right." Harry falls silent as Delia comes up, menus in her hand. She sets them down in front of them, with only the faintest quizzical look at Draco. Instead, she frowns at Harry. 

"What happened to your arm, love?" Delia asks. 

Harry'd almost forgotten it for a moment. He glances down at the sling. "Work accident," he says, "but it's getting better." Draco snorts at that, and Harry scowls at him. "Not a word from you."

"I said nothing." Draco picks up the menu, ignoring Harry studiously. "Except perhaps if you'd actually take your poti--" He stops, with a sideways glance at Delia, then says, "Your medications properly, perhaps you'd be out of that damned sling by now."

It's been a point of contention between them since this morning, standing in the en suite, Draco lecturing Harry about proper potions use. They'd nearly argued, but Harry'd taken the damn pain potion before it could get too heated. Or at least he'd let Draco think he had; half of it he'd Vanished when Draco'd looked away. 

And then Parkinson hadn't helped this afternoon. Harry knows they're both right, but he's never been keen on being under the influence of potions. Not when he needs to be sharp at least. And between work and Draco--well. Harry can't afford to be off his mind, can he? Still, he supposes he might go see a Healer. Tomorrow, perhaps. 

He sighs, eyeing Draco's blond topknot above the edge of the menu. "A bloody drink is what I really need."

"Shall I bring a house pinot grigio then?" Delia asks, and Harry nods. 

The menu lowers at that, and Harry catches a glimpse of Draco's flaring nostrils. "You're an absolute philistine, Potter," Draco says, with a glare of horrified disgust, and Delia's mouth twitches a bit. Draco turns to her. "Do you have a Vernaccia di San Gimignano?"

She looks surprised, but nods. "I could pull a bottle, but it's expensive."

"That one," Draco says, pointing at Harry, "can afford it, so please do see if you can find it. No house pinot for him. The idiot really has to learn better wines."

"I like the house stuff," Harry protests. 

The look Draco gives him is scathing. He turns back to Delia. "We'll have an antipasto platter to share for starters." He waves his hand before Delia can speak. "Whichever one's the best as long as there's meat and veg both. What fish do you have that you'd recommend?"

"The sea bass," Delia says, and her mouth twitches in amusement. "It's what Harry usually orders."

Draco eyes Harry speculatively. "I'm sceptical about eating anything Harry enjoys." Harry flips two fingers his way, and Draco just smiles in return.

"We also have a black ink tagliatelle," Delia says. "With prawns." She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "You look like a prawns bloke."

"You'd be correct," Draco says. He picks up the menus and hands them back to Delia. "That sounds brilliant."

Delia glances at Harry. "Sea bass?"

"You know me well." Harry leans back in his seat, waiting until Delia walks off. He unfolds the thick white cotton napkin and drapes it over his lap before looking up at Draco. "So how was work?"

"I can't tell you that." Draco sits forward, his hands folded in the table in front of him. "You know that."

Harry snorts. "More training then."

"Muriel's working me like a dog." A stray wisp of Draco's hair slips forward, over his cheek. He tucks it back behind his ear. The votive candle on their table flickers, sending shadows dancing across Draco's pale skin. Harry wonders if he knows how bloody gorgeous he looks like this, his slightly rumpled black linen shirt open at the throat, showing a small vee of pale skin. "But I'm getting better."

"Maybe you can practise on me later," Harry says, and a quick smile lights up Draco's face. 

"Naked?" Draco asks.

Harry shrugs. His shoulder only half-twinges. "Or half, if you prefer. You could show me what you'd like whilst I do it." 

Warmth flares in those cool grey eyes of Draco's. "Oh?" He leans on his elbows. "I could always start right now, if you'd like."

And an image slides effortlessly into Harry's mind, almost as if it's of his own volition. Draco draped across their bed, naked and flushed, legs spread wide and lifted up, prick hard and ruddy and wet, the swollen head pushing out from beneath the velvety stretch of his foreskin, his arse already slick with oil, soft pink furl fluttering and pulsing.

"Jesus, Draco," Harry breathes out. His cock swells in his jeans, pushes against his flies. "You horrible slag."

Draco just laughs, and it's a sound Harry's missed, that bright, soft burst of amusement. He hasn't heard it very often the past few weeks, and it softens Draco's face, makes his eyes brighten in the candlelight. "You like it when I am."

"Obviously." Harry reaches across the table with his good hand, lets it rest over Draco's for a moment. His thumb traces a small circle across Draco's skin. Draco lets him for a moment before he pulls back, his gaze flicking around the near-empty dining room. Harry sits back, only slightly disappointed. 

"Anyway," Draco says, and his cheeks are flushed. He doesn't quite meet Harry's gaze. "We were talking about your birthday." He clears his throat. "On Monday."

Harry shifts in the small wooden chair. His jeans feel too tight; he almost wishes they'd stayed home for dinner. He could have thrown Draco across the kitchen table, sucked his prick to distract him. Harry doesn't like thinking about his birthday, if he's honest. "It's not a big deal."

Draco frowns. "It's your birthday. What do you normally do?"

"Nothing much." Harry falls silent as Delia comes back with the bottle of wine and two glasses and the antipasto platter on a tray. She pours them each a half-glass then sets the bottle and the antipasto between them.

"Eat," Delia says with a smile, and then she's gone again, and Draco's just looking at Harry from across the table. 

Harry reaches for an olive and pops it into his mouth. "What?" he asks, glancing away. He can feel his face warm. 

"You can't tell me," Draco says, "that Granger and Weasley don't make a fuss over your birthday."

They used to try. Once they'd all been out on their own, at least. Hermione had thrown a party for Harry a few times, invited all their friends around, but Harry hadn't cared for it. Not really. Then they'd settled for going out to dinner, but the past few years Harry hadn't really been around. He and Jake hadn't bothered with anything elaborate; Harry's idea of a birthday present had been a good shag and that was it. 

Draco's face twists into a grimace. "That, I didn't need to know."

Harry feels his cheeks heat up again. "Stop pushing into my mind then." 

"You wear your bloody thoughts on your sleeve," Draco says with a frown. "It's almost like you're shouting at me sometimes."

Still, Harry feels something slip from his mind, an almost imperceptible presence that he immediately misses.

"I'm sorry," Draco says after a moment. "Sometimes I forget to close a connection."

"You're still learning." Harry studies his boyfriend, takes in his faintly embarrassed expression. He knows that was an honest mistake on Draco's part. Harry doesn't mind, not really, but he slips a stronger Occlumens in place, just in case. He knows Draco can feel it; Draco gives him a relieved look.

"Thanks," Draco says. He picks up his glass of wine, takes a sip. "I really didn't mean--"

"I know." Harry takes a piece of salami from the platter; he rolls it between his fingers, then takes a bite. They're silent for a moment before the awkwardness fades. "So," Harry says finally. "I don't really do birthdays up."

Draco takes an olive and bites into it, chewing before he answers. "You're twenty-six on Monday which means you've officially left your youth behind and joined me on the slow downfall to thirty." He finishes the olive, licks his thumb clean with a quick swipe of his pink tongue. Harry's prick jerks in his jeans. "We're doing something," Draco says. He studies Harry thoughtfully. "Maybe a dinner."

"Maybe I can just do you," Harry says, and something sparks in Draco's eyes. He gives Harry a slow smile.

"Maybe." 

Harry reaches for his wine, takes a sip. It's crisp and dry, almost peachy with a faint mineral taste. He licks his bottom lip as he lowers his glass. "Fuck," he says, the after-taste still bright and a bit bitter in his mouth.

"Better than your house wine?" Draco's smiling at him over the rim of his own glass. 

"A bit." Harry wants to lean over the table and kiss the wine from Draco's mouth. "Not a bad pick."

Draco snorts and takes a sip. "Like I said, Potter. You're pure philistine."

Harry watches him, a wave of affection twisting through him. "Christ, I love you," he says, almost impetuously, his voice low, and Draco sets down his glass, looking over at him. Harry meets his gaze. "I do." 

"I'm glad." Draco doesn't look away from Harry. "I'd rather hate it," he says lightly, "if my feelings weren't returned."

Harry still marvels that they're here at this point, he and Draco. After all they've been through. He wonders sometimes if it'll last. If this will just be a flash in the pan, a brief moment of happiness. Harry's trying to learn to accept it, whatever it might become. To be here for Draco now, to not worry about anything else. Still, there's a part of him that wants so much more, even this early into their relationship. That unsettles him in a way. Harry's never wanted something like this. He's not entirely certain what to do with it, if he's honest.

They sit silently, comfortably together. 

"So do you have any leads on Uncle Roddy?" Draco asks after a moment, and Harry gives him a pointed look. Draco sighs and sets his wine glass down. "I know. I'm not supposed to be told." He rubs his thumb over the rim of the glass. "It's just…" He trails off, looks away. "It's hard," he says after a moment. "Not an insider any more."

Harry's heart twists a bit. He knows Draco's struggling with being left out. "We haven't much joy in the investigation," he says after a moment. "Yet."

Draco nods. "I thought as much." He looks down at the pile of olives in front of him, chooses another one and eats it slowly. He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, then sighs. "It feels strange not being part of Seven-Four-Alpha," he says after a moment. He looks up at Harry, then adds, "Not ever being part of it now, I suppose."

"I don't like that." Harry rests his good elbow on the table. Picks up a piece of bread and dips it in the oil on the platter. It's almost sweetly nutty when he tastes it. He swallows. "It's not fair, erasing you like that--"

"If it protects you in the end," Draco says, his voice soft and fierce, "then I don't give a fuck."

Harry falls silent. He doesn't know what to say. 

Draco looks away. "I just miss things," he says finally. "People." His face is sad, pale in the candlelight. 

Harry knows Draco's lonely, knows that as much as they want to be together, he and Draco, that they've been isolating themselves in a way. Maybe they've needed to, he thinks. Maybe it's been safe for them both. But he thinks of Parkinson's expression, of the lost look in her eyes when she'd spoken of Draco. She misses him too, he thinks. 

"You should see your friends," Harry says, almost before he thinks. "I know you want to."

Draco glances over at him. "They're busy."

"Not too busy for you." Harry watches Draco as he shifts in his seat, his gaze slipping from Harry's. "You know that."

"I suppose." Draco picks up his glass of wine. He's still not looking at Harry. 

Harry hesitates, studies him. "What are you afraid of?"

Draco's hand only shakes a bit as he sets his glass down again. "I'm not."

That's a lie, and they both know it. "Draco," Harry says, as gently as he can. "Come on."

"It's nothing." Draco's staring at the candle, watching as the flame flickers inside the mercury glass holder. Harry waits. He thinks Draco needs this space. The silence stretches out, taut and tense, until Draco breaks it with a soft sigh. He looks up at Harry. "They know me," he says quietly. "They know my father. I'm worried that it'll make it harder, them seeing me like this. For all of us." He chews on his lip. "I'm not myself these days."

"You are more than you think," Harry says. He wants to touch Draco's hand, but he thinks it's the wrong time. So he keeps still, his gaze fixed on Draco's pale, worried face. "And they're your friends. It's not as if they don't know you're grieving."

The word hangs heavy between them for a moment, and then Draco swallows, looks away again. His hands are curled around the stem of his wine glass; his thumb strokes along the smooth surface. 

"I'm not exactly fond of myself right now," Draco says. "I'm terrible company. I've no idea why you put up with me."

"Brilliant sex," Harry says lightly, and Draco gives him a small smile.

"Prat." 

Harry just makes himself relax in his chair. He takes a sip of his wine, sets the glass aside. "You don't have to be good company. None of us need that. I think Zabini and Parkinson just want to see you. Make sure you're all right." He pauses, then says, "You haven't been returning their calls."

"No," Draco admits. He's not looking at Harry. "I've been too afraid to." He worries his lip between his teeth again. "It's one thing for you to see me like this--"

"Like what?" Harry asks. "Human?"

Draco just looks over at him. 

"You act as if you shouldn't be upset," Harry says, leaning forward. "As if you shouldn't be sad your father was murdered by your fucking uncle--"

"My father was an arsehole," Draco says. 

"Yeah." Harry glances at him. He's not going to lie to Draco. That won't help anything. "He was. And he did some fucked-up, shitty things. Put you and your mum in danger over and over. I'd pound his goddamned face in for that if he were still alive." 

Draco's gaze flicks up to meet Harry's. "How very Gryffindor of you," he says, but there's no bite behind the words. Harry knows that. 

"None of that means you can't be upset that he's gone." Harry doesn't look away from Draco. He can feel his heart thudding against his chest, his stomach twisting. He's worried about Draco, terrified that he's going to say the wrong thing, that he'll make everything worse. "Even with all the shit Lucius did, he was still your dad."

"Was." Draco's voice is thick, tight. Harry can see the brightness in his eyes before he looks away, blinking. "That's the hard part of it all, you know." He twists his wine glass in his fingers. "Nothing is ever going to change now. He's gone. He's never going to…" Draco trails off, presses his lips together. 

"Never going to be the dad you wanted him to be," Harry finishes, and Draco hesitates, then shrugs, lifting his wine glass to his mouth. 

Draco takes a long drink, swallowing the dregs, then sets the glass down and reaches for the bottle, pouring another glass, then topping Harry's off. When he puts the bottle aside, he breathes out, a soft exhale that lifts his shoulders ever so slightly then relaxes them. "It's strange how much that thought hurts," he says finally. 

"I know." Harry just watches him. "It's why you need all of us, you know. As much as I love you, I can't give you everything you need. Zabini and Parkinson, they've known you for years. They can help in ways I can't--"

"You help more than you realise," Draco says, and his voice is sharp. 

Harry nods. "I'm glad." And he is. Having Draco say that eases some of Harry's worry. "But that doesn't mean you don't need them too."

Draco's silent for a moment, then he says, his voice almost inaudible, "I know."

They sit there, not speaking, Draco not looking at Harry. 

Delia arrives with their food. She sets the plates in front of them, spotless white pottery platters filled with pasta and seafood and bright vegetables. It smells brilliant, Harry thinks, and he hadn't realised how hungry he is. 

"All right then?" Delia asks, and Harry nods. He catches her curious glance Draco's way, knows she's taking in Draco's bent head and slumped shoulders. Her gaze shifts to Harry, and he gives her a small smile. 

"We're good, Del, thanks." 

She hesitates, then nods. "Let me know if you need anything." Her hand settles briefly on Draco's shoulder, then she's gone before he looks up. 

Draco watches her walk away. For a moment, Harry thinks he's going to be angry, but his face softens. "She's nice," he says finally. 

"I like her." Harry watches Draco. "Are you all right? Should we go home?"

"No." Draco shakes his head, reaches for his fork. "I'll be fine." 

Harry's not so certain. He knows Draco now, can tell that he's struggling to keep his emotions under control. "We can eat at home--"

"I'm fine." Draco's voice has an edge to it; he's gripping his fork tightly. "Just sit." 

"Okay." Harry settles back in his seat. He looks down at his plate. Delia's had the kitchen debone the sea bass for him, slicing it up into manageable bits instead of leaving it in its usual filet. He picks up his fork in his left hand, grateful he doesn't have to cut anything. When he looks up again, Draco's watching him. "What's wrong?"

Draco shakes his head, drags the tines of his fork across his pasta. "I'll talk to them," he says after a moment. "Pansy and Blaise. I'll ring them both up when we go home, if that's all right."

Harry's surprised. "I think that'd be good," he says, and Draco dips his head just a bit, takes a bite of prawn. 

"So," Draco says, looking up at Harry, and he tries to give Harry a faint smile. "Tell me more about your day, if you can."

And Harry does.

***

Althea really doesn't want to go up against Antonin Dolohov at half-ten on a Friday morning, but she hasn't a bloody choice, has she? Not after the guv had told her yesterday that she was on deck this morning and waved away her protests. He wanted her by his side. She supposes she should be pleased, but she's not.

Instead she feels as if she might just sick up, right here at her desk. She eyes her bin, wondering how badly Zabini would mock her if she did. She'd probably never live it down, and he'd be sure to bring it up in front of Parkinson, and Althea just doesn't want to deal with that humiliation. So she breathes out through her nose, trying to calm her roiling stomach. 

Until Potter comes out of his office, a frown on his face and his arm still in that damned sling, and says, "Whitaker, we're up in five minutes. Get your notes."

Zabini looks up at her from his stack of file jackets. "Good luck," he says as Althea's pushing herself out of her chair, reluctantly. 

Althea grimaces. "We'll need it." Frankly, she thinks Zabini should be part of this interview. He'd taken the collar, after all, and that makes him more of a threat to Dolohov, at least in Althea's eyes. The guv hadn't agreed, and neither had Zabini. She's more skilled in interviewing, they'd both said, and Althea thinks that's a bit of bollocks. 

What she won't admit is that she's fucking terrified of Antonin Dolohov. Anyone with half a brain would be, she thinks. He's a vicious son of a bitch, and Althea's feeling a hell of a lot more fragile at the moment than she wants anyone to know. It'd been hard to say goodbye to Marcus this week; it'd brought up feelings she'd rather not have right now. Anger. Grief. Betrayal. All things that are drawing Althea's focus away from her work, making her sloppy and slow. In her eyes at least. She knows sometimes she can be harder on herself than anyone else might be.

And then there's her father. The second of August is next Wednesday, and Althea knows her father's struggling with memories of that awful night. They'd talked about her mum when she'd gone to Bristol yesterday to take him to dinner. She'd sat in a Muggle chippie, pushing mushy peas around her plate whilst her father teared up, telling her how much he missed her mother, how he's been waking up at night, screaming, begging Dolohov and Corban Yaxley to leave his wife be. To kill him instead. It'd been awful, really, and Althea'd gone home and taken a sleeping draught afterwards just to keep her own grief over her mother from overwhelming her, to hold her own nightmares about that night at bay. She can't fall apart right now, not in the middle of a case, but it's all so close to the surface and she's having a hard time fighting it back. 

Honestly, she doesn't know how she'll be able to sit across from Dolohov today. How she won't reach across the table and slam his face into it. 

She wants to. So fucking badly. 

The guv would probably switch her out for Zabini if he knew. Althea thinks about telling him as she shrugs into her jacket, picks up her file jacket filled with notes. But she doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want to admit any weakness to Harry Potter. Doesn't want to see his face filled with pity. 

And so Althea finds herself walking down the back staircases, Potter at her side, their footsteps loud in the silent stairwell. 

"You're all right?" Potter says halfway down, and Althea just nods. Potter doesn't say anything for another floor or two, and then he glances over at her. "I know this isn't going to be easy for you." He hesitates, then adds, "What with your mum and all." 

To be honest, Althea's surprised that Potter's even considered that. "I'm fine." She's not, but she'll be damned if she tells him otherwise. 

Potter stops on the landing outside the door to Level Six. "That's bollocks." 

Althea's a few steps in front of him. She turns around, her fingers tight around the metal bannister. "If you're so fucking concerned, sir," she says, her irritation starting to well up, "why didn't you have Zabini take over?"

"Because I thought you deserved this chance." Potter's looking at her evenly. "That you might want to face this bastard down. Was I wrong?"

Althea looks away, her stomach twisting again. She holds her file jacket close to her chest. "I don't know," she says after a moment. "Marcus. My mum…" Her voice cracks; she swallows, exhales. "It's a lot." 

Potter's hand settles on her shoulder. "You have this, Whitaker. You're bloody good at interrogation, and if I didn't think you'd be brill, I'd have left your arse in the incident room. I want you to do this. I know you can." 

"I'm not so certain," Althea says, and her throat feels so tight and raw. "It's been nine years. Nine years and that bastard's been walking free and I never knew--" She breaks off, bites her lip. Exhales again. "I want to hurt him," she says softly, and she can't look at the guv. Her face burns. She can't believe she's saying this, admitting it out loud.

"Yeah." Potter takes a step down from the landing. "You think you're the first Auror who's felt that way?"

She looks up at him. "No?"

"No," Potter repeats. He's watching her closely, she can tell. She tries to straighten her shoulders, to pull herself together. "We've all had those cases where we get a bit too involved. You know that."

Althea does. She's heard the seasoned Aurors talk about them before. "This is a bit different, sir."

"It doesn't have to be." Potter takes another step down, then another. They're even now. "I trust you to do your job, Whitaker. You're good at it. And whatever personal feelings you have, you'll put them aside. Tuck them away until we get out of that interview room. After that, I don't give a shit what you do. Punch the goddamned wall if you need to, yeah?"

"Yeah." A small smile curves Althea's mouth. "Sounds like you speak from experience." 

"I've had my moments." Potter starts down the stairs again. Althea follows him. "Back when I was a sergeant myself." He looks over at her, and Althea realises how young he really is compared to the grizzled Aurors she's worked with before. She forgets sometimes that he's barely older than herself. Something about Harry Potter is almost larger than life, Althea thinks. 

"It's the kids that were hard for me," Potter admits. "I had a case once where a wizard was going after Muggle boys…" He sighs, shakes his head. "I wanted to kill that bastard. Gawain had to pull me out of the room, tell me to calm the fuck down, to do my job so we could actually put the arsehole in Azkaban, instead of sending me along with him."

"That must have worked." Althea's hand skims along the bannister as they take the turn around a landing. "You're still here."

Potter's quiet for a moment, then he says, "Barely. I nearly set the whole room on fire."

"Oh." Althea watches him. "I've noticed you…" She hesitates, unsure as to how to broach the matter. "Well." She pushes her fingers up, mocking an explosion with them. 

"Get a bit smoky when I'm angry?" Potter gives her a small smile. She nods. "It happens," he says. "I have a temper."

And a hell of a lot of magic to fuel it, Althea wants to point out, but she doesn't. Sometimes the guv frightens her a bit, if she's honest. He's powerful, probably more so than he really understands, and she doesn't think she'd ever want that anger of his directed her way. 

They stop outside the doors to Level Nine. These aren't like the others they've gone past. They're large and heavy and a rich, dark black, like looking at the absence of something, a deep, inexplicable void in the smooth white line of the wall. Potter reaches out, grabs hold of a knocker that Althea hadn't even realised was there. It blends perfectly with the wood of the door itself. When Potter lets it fall, the sound it makes is loud and heavy, fathomless in a way. 

It takes a moment, but the door swings open. Granger's there, in a crisp apple green dress, and her cool gaze sweeps over Althea, making her feel frumpy and plain in her dark tailored suit. "He's ready," Granger says, letting them step past her. 

The carpet in the hallway is plush and thick, swallowing the sound of their footsteps. They move silently past tall, dark doors set into the black wood-panelled walls, none of them marked. And then the carpet gives way to marble, and the sudden click of Granger's heels is startlingly loud in the quiet of the corridor. 

Althea's nerves feel frayed. Frazzled. She draws in a slow breath, then lets it out. It sounds louder than she expects it to, and Potter glances over at her, gives her a small, encouraging smile. 

Granger stops in front of a nondescript door. It looks the same as the others lining the hall. She turns towards Potter. "Saul's letting you both have the room to yourselves," she says, and the guv nods. "We'll be watching from the observation area and recording, of course."

"I expected," Potter says. He doesn't look best pleased, Althea thinks. "Will there be Luxembourg representatives?" 

"Nadia Daifallah," Granger says. "Along with Aurélie Fontaine."

Potter frowns. "Better those two, I suppose." 

"They've done their own interrogation," Granger says, "but they haven't shared the transcript yet." 

"Do you have an unofficial one?" Potter asks, and at Granger's raised eyebrow, he smiles, wide and easy. "Come on, Hermione. You can't tell me Saul Croaker doesn't have recording spells on every fucking room that bastard in there walks into."

Granger's mouth quirks up at one corner. "I'm not telling you that, Harry," she says. "But I'm also not not telling you that either."

The guv laughs. "So what's the likelihood that transcript might get shared?"

"If such a thing did exist," Granger says carefully, her voice soft, "then I would expect it could possibly make its way into your files. But only with Croaker's permission." She gives him a pointed look.

"You'll look into that for me?" Potter asks, and Granger shrugs. Althea glances between them, curious. They're not really paying attention to her, and she's glad of that. 

"I'll see what I can do." Granger pauses, then adds, "It wouldn't be admissible in court, though, without Brussels providing an official copy." 

Potter puts his hand on the doorknob. "I just want it for informational purposes. For now at least."

"Then I'll talk to Saul." Granger takes a step back. "If you need any of us, knock on the wall. I have Unspeakables at the ready if Dolohov gets nasty." 

That doesn't really make Althea feel any better. 

Potter opens the door and walks into the interview room. Althea takes a deep breath, then follows him in, letting the door fall shut behind her. 

Antonin Dolohov's chained to the single black table in the middle of the room, watching them calmly through narrowed eyes. He looks more unkempt than when she saw him last, her arm chained to his as they Portkeyed from London. His beard's ragged, his hair rumpled but washed, she thinks. He's lost his orange MACUSA robe for a grey jersey robe that hangs limply from his shoulders. 

"Hullo, Antonin," Potter says as he sits down at the table. He gives Dolohov an easy smile. "How's things?"

Dolohov just looks at him, his face inscrutable. He doesn't seem to notice when Althea sits beside Potter. She's nothing to him, she realises, and that thought's a relief. 

Potter hasn't brought a file jacket with him. He just leans back in his chair and casts the recording charm before he clears his throat and says, "Inspector Harry Potter and Sergeant Althea Whitaker of the London Auror force interviewing Antonin Ioannovich Dolohov at…" Potter glances down at the watch on his left wrist. "Ten thirty-six a.m. on the twenty-eighth of July, two thousand and six. Mr Dolohov's fingerprints and magical signature have been recorded and confirmed within the Auror database as per the Wizengamot Justice and Courts Act of 1999." He sits forward; the feet of his chair scrape across the black marble floor.

The room fees odd to Althea, different from the bright, concrete chill of the Auror interview rooms. The walls here are a black shiny tile that almost matches the floor, and the only light comes from three bronze lamps hanging from the black-painted ceiling, pooling warm puddles of light across the smooth black surface of the table. Two long, darkened windows are on either side of the room; Althea can't help but wonder from which side they're being watched. 

"Mr Dolohov, " Potter's saying, his voice even and clear, "I'll proceed by reading you the following caution: you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Dolohov just looks at them. 

"For the recording, please, Mr Dolohov," Althea says, and she's relieved that her voice doesn't shake when Dolohov's cold, obsidian gaze flicks towards her. 

"Yes," he says after a moment, his accent a curious mixture of Russian and British. It's the same as Althea remembers from that night nine years ago, and for a moment her head swims, her breath catches. She can feel the thud of her pulse in her body, and she thinks she's going to tilt to the side, fall off her chair, but then Potter's elbow is against her side, and she inhales sharply, the sound ragged and rough in the quiet of the room. 

Althea covers it with a cough, turning away for just a moment to gather herself. When she twists back in her chair, the guv's giving her a sideways look. She just nods, trying to tell him she's all right. She'll make herself be. 

"You obviously know why you're here," Potter says, and Althea busies herself with opening her file jacket, pretending to rifle through her papers and notes. Dolohov's not even looking at her, she realises, and she relaxes, tries to breathe out. The guv leans forward. "But I don't really give a shit about any of that right now, Antonin. I've plenty of evidence to tie you to the charges we've filed against you. Enough to put your sorry arse right back in Azkaban again."

Dolohov just raises an eyebrow. "So."

"So," Potter repeats. He settles back in his chair, crosses his ankle over his knee. Althea envies the guv his ease. She's afraid to move lest Dolohov see her hands shake. She sits as still and upright as she can, her shoulders stiff and tight. She can't stop looking at Dolohov's face, studying it, remembering how it'd looked that August night when he'd shown up in her sitting room, a few steps behind Corban Yaxley. She swallows. Presses her lips together. 

A silence stretches out in the room. Dolohov and Potter are watching each other, waiting to see who'll break first. The guv just smiles, faint and calm, and Dolohov finally looks away. 

"What do you want?" Dolohov asks. "All of you want something. It's growing quite dull, really, but eventually you'll tire of it and transfer me." His smile is razor-sharp. "And we all know how that'll go. Albeit a bit differently this time."

Potter quirks an eyebrow. "You think you'll survive."

"I know I will, Harry Potter." Dolohov doesn't look away. "I'm far more useful than Malfoy ever was."

"So you think." Potter doesn't lose his temper, Althea notices. She wonders if Dolhov knows about the guv's relationship with the younger Malfoy. She doesn't think he does; if he did, he'd be more pointed, twist his words a bit more. 

It calms her to analyse Dolohov, Althea realises. To make him just another suspect to break. The trembling in her hands settles. She flattens them over her papers. 

Dolohov just shrugs. "I suppose we'll see when the time comes." 

"Right." Potter watches Dolohov for a moment. Althea glances down at her notes, trying to pull her thoughts back together. "So tell me," the guv asks, not breaking his gaze, "does your friend Rodolphus have someone helping him in Brussels? Because I find it quite odd that he managed to just, I don't know, pop into the Courts of Justice and back out again after massacring an entire Portkey cabin of law enforcement officials." 

"That'd be telling, wouldn't it?" Dolohov smiles again. "Ruins the fun of it all, I think."

Potter nods, a bit affably, but Althea can sense the fury building behind it. "I suppose it does." He glances at Althea. "But it also rather answers the question in its own way, doesn't it, Sergeant Whitaker?"

"Might do, guv," Althea says. She lets her gaze drift to Dolohov. "The implication being by a non-answer that yes, he does have an accomplice in a position to help in that way."

Dolohov's eyes narrow at her. "That's not what I said."

Althea scrawls a note in her file. "But that's what you implied. So." She looks over at the guv. "I think we ought to poke into that." 

"I agree." Potter turns back to Dolohov. "Thanks for that tip. I'm sure Lestrange will be thrilled you're helping us out."

"Fuck you," Dolohov says, and his mouth twists over the words. "It's not me you should be worried about."

Althea glances up at him. "Then who? We already know about Lestrange, so who the fuck cares about that? Eddie Durant? That's laughable. So who else is there, Antonin? Les Harkaway?" When Dolohov's face tightens, she knows she's hit a nerve. "Harkaway then. What? You're angry he escaped?"

Dolohov just snorts, his eyes shifting towards her. "You're a stupid bitch, aren't you?"

"Maybe." Althea doesn't look away. Her heart thuds in her chest, but she's not going to flinch. Not to this goddamned bastard. "Want to tell me how?"

Her breath catches a bit, though as Dolohov studies her face. "I know you," he says. "Your mother was Clio." His eyes are cold. "Clio Yaxley. You look like her, except she was prettier." His gaze drifts down her body. "More fuckable."

"Watch it," Potter says, and Dolohov's smile turns feral. 

"As if he's my type," Althea says, with far more bravado than she feels. She hates the sound of her mother's name falling from this bastard's lips. She wants to grab him, slam him forward, wrap those chains holding him still around his neck and pull them tight. Her fists are clenched in front of her, her short nails digging into her flesh. "So what is it about Harkaway that narks you off, mate?"

Dolohov laughs, and it's a horrible, vicious echo against the tile walls. "Ask your great-uncle, girlie." His smile gets uglier, and he leans forward. "He knows a hell of a lot more about things than you might think."

"You mean Aldric Yaxley." Potter's voice is quiet. Firm. "The Old Man."

"That's what they call him." Dolohov leans back in his chair. 

Althea doesn't trust this shit. "He's sending us off on a wild goose chase, guv," she says, not looking away from Dolohov's face. 

Dolohov just shrugs. "Whatever you want to think, bitch." He looks over at Potter. "You've no goddamned idea what you've stumbled into, you idiot. It's more than your stupid half-blood brain can comprehend." His gaze shifts to Althea, turns even more contemptuous. "Either of you."

"Then explain it," Potter says. 

"I'm not that much of a fool," Dolohov spits out, and his gaze shifts to one of the windows, then the other, almost as if he thinks someone might be there, might be listening. "You'll get nothing from me."

Potter's silent for a moment. Althea waits, almost holding her breath, and then the guv says, "I already know you're frightened of someone, Antonin. Is it Lestrange?"

Dolohov just looks at him. 

"So maybe." Potter's voice is almost gentle. "But maybe it's Aldric Yaxley as well?"

That makes Dolohov snort. "He's a fool. Nothing else." Still, Dolohov shifts in his seat. Althea thinks he's uneasy. She wishes Malfoy were in here, thinks of what they might pick up with his Legilimency skills in play. He'd know if Dolohov was afraid, know which name made him feel more unsettled. 

"Is it someone else then?" she asks, and Dolohov doesn't look at her, doesn't even acknowledge what she's said. 

Althea thinks she's right. That it's not just those two. There's someone closer by, she thinks. Someone Dolohov is afraid might be listening. 

_He's afraid,_ she scrawls on her notepad. _Someone here?_ She holds it so Potter can see it, and he nods. 

"We can protect you," the guv says. "If you're worried about your safety."

Dolohov's mouth twists. "Like you protected Lucius Malfoy, yes? And Selwyn? And all those other ponces?" He gives Potter a scathing look. "I'm not a fucking fool. You want to know what's going on, Potter?" He leans forward, pressing his long body against the edge of the table. "You fucking figure it out yourself." 

His spittle strikes Potter's cheek. The guv just wipes his shirt cuff across it, not looking away from Dolohov. 

"Just think about it, Antonin," Potter says. "You'd have my word. We'd do everything we can to keep you safe."

Dolohov looks away. "Fuck off," he says, and the guv sighs, leans back in his chair. 

"Interview terminated at ten fifty-one," Potter says, and he pushes his chair back. Stands. He glances down at Dolohov. "You're not getting out of this. Whomever you're afraid of? You're going to go to Azkaban for them as well, and they'll be walking free. Keep that in mind, will you?"

He doesn't get an answer. 

"Let's go, Whitaker," the guv says, and Althea closes her file jacket, stands as well. She's certain Dolohov will stop them before they get to the door. 

Dolohov doesn't. 

The guv closes the door behind them; the moment he does Althea's legs go wobbly. She leans against the wall, her whole body shaking.

"You did well," Potter says, and he's next to her, holding her steady. 

Althea wants to cry. Wants to scream. Wants to put her fist through the dark-panelled wall. Instead she takes an uneven breath, closes her eyes. "Fuck," she says after a moment. "He's a bastard."

"Rather." Potter's shoulder is pressed against hers. It's warm and solid and oddly comforting. 

Althea opens her eyes. Looks over at him. "He's hiding a hell of a lot."

Potter nods his agreement. The light from the sconces glints off his glasses. "We'll break him. Eventually."

"Maybe." Althea's not too certain of that. 

The door down the hall opens; Granger comes out, followed by two women Althea doesn't recognise, then Saul Croaker. 

"Fuck," Potter says under his breath as Croaker raises his hand, beckons them. He looks over at Althea. "You want to go back upstairs and let me handle this?"

It's an out Althea desperately wants to take. She still feels shaky, still thinks she might vom right here on the marble floor. She wants to go back upstairs, wants to sit at her desk, calm her thoughts, have Zabini tell her she'll be fine. Maybe even wander into Parkinson's lab. Flirt a little until she feels steadier, more herself. But Potter's her guv, and she's not going to leave him to be grilled alone by the Head Unspeakable. "No," she says, her voice a bit too loud, a bit too high. Potter just looks at her. Althea shakes her head. "I'll stay."

"Good," Potter says, and she knows she's pleased him. He draws in a deep breath, squares his shoulders. "Let's go see what the fucker has to say." He puts on a pleasant smile, one that Althea knows is entirely fake. She hides her own as she watches Potter stride down the hallway. 

She'd follow him anywhere, she realises with a start. Whatever he told her to do, wherever he told her to go. 

Harry Potter's her guv now, Seven-Four-Alpha's her team, and she trusts them all implicitly. Of that much Althea's fucking certain.

She lifts her chin and walks after her guv, finally feeling worthy of her sergeant's bars.

It's a damned good feeling, she thinks.

***

Draco sits cross-legged on the sparring mat, opposite Muriel Burke. Her eyes are closed, she's breathing out slowly, then inhaling again. He's supposed to be following her lead, but he feels a right fool.

"Are you certain this'll help?" he asks, and his voice is loud in the quiet of the training room.

Burke opens one eye. "Only if you fucking let it, sprog."

Draco's sceptical, although he knows he shouldn't be. Durant had told him practically the same thing back in New York. But Draco hates this part of his training, this expectation that he'll be still and quiet, that he'll let his mind settle, become at ease, tap into some unexplained bollocks that will make him one with the universe or some sort of twaddle. 

"It's not like that," Burke says, and Draco frowns more. 

"Stop poking into my head," he says. 

Burke just exhales. Her hands are resting on her knees, her back is ramrod straight. She doesn't say anything for a few breaths and then she lets her eyes slide open, looks at Draco. "The whole point," she says, "is that you need to control your abilities. You're the one who can't shut it off easily, sprog. Not me. So that wasn't me poking about in your head, but rather you projecting into mine." 

"Whatever," Draco says, and he knows he sounds sulky. He's tired and worn out. It's been a long week and a longer day, it feels like. His head's hurting, his body's tense. He rolls his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks in his neck. His hair's pulled back into a ponytail, and it's drenched with sweat. He wants nothing more than a good shower, maybe a bit of a kip on the sofa at Grimmauld Place before he has to go out to dinner with Blaise and Pansy. He'd rung them both up last night, like he'd promised Harry. Made arrangements to see them after work. It'd been oddly difficult; he'd felt distant from them both at first. He still does in a way that he can't really explain, but that he doesn't like. He doesn't want to go out, not really. He wants to stay home, to curl up in bed with Harry and read for a bit, maybe even fuck if Harry's up for it. 

Which Harry always is.

But he knows he needs to see Blaise and Pansy. Later maybe he'll ring up Millie and Greg. Theo even. He misses his friends. Harry's right about that. It feels like forever since they've been together, all of them. May at least, he thinks. For now, though, he can handle Pans. Blaise. Maybe his mother and Aunt Andromeda later this weekend. If he's not too tired. 

Draco knows what being tired means, really. It's a deep sadness that wears him out, a quiet, constant grief that saps his energy, makes him less willing to drain himself by seeing people. He can stomach work because he has to, and really, Burke's tucked him away in this room all week, just the two of them. Draco's been glad of that. And Harry never wears him out, not really. Going out for dinner last night had been hard, but Draco's glad they'd gone in the end. And after he'd talked to Pansy and then Blaise, he'd gone upstairs to bed and wrapped himself around Harry, drifting into sleep as Harry sat up in bed, going through work files that he'd Levitated in front of him. It'd been good, Draco thinks. Calming. 

He hadn't even woken up in the middle of the night this time. 

"Breathe, Draco," Burke says, and Draco blinks at her. He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath. She looks at him, her brow furrowed in worry. "You're thinking about your father again," she says. 

"Not really." Except he had been, in a way, he supposes. The nightmares that have been waking him have been about his father. He doesn't want to think about them, doesn't want to remember the fear, the horror, the moment when he realises that he _is_ his father, standing in the middle of an empty Portkey cabin, staring Rodolphus Lestrange in the face, knowing that raised wand is going to end his life. 

When he wakes up screaming Harry's always there. 

Draco exhales. Tries to clear his head. Burke tells him he has to learn to keep his thoughts in control. It's the only way to learn how to direct his Legilimency properly. He's developed so much this week, learnt how to be more precise, how to be nearly undetectable. Harry's let him practice on him at nights, giving Draco nearly full rein inside his mind. Draco thinks it's bringing them closer. He hadn't realised that was possible, if he's honest. He's never felt like this with anyone before, never been this willing to lay himself bare. 

It's so very not Slytherin of him, he thinks, and that worries him more than he'll admit. And so he keeps some parts of him back, tries not to give all of himself to Harry, but that's harder than it seems. 

"Good," Burke says. "Except you're still thinking too much. I can feel it all the way over here. Empty your head, sprog. Try to keep it clear. Toss out the clutter."

Draco shifts on his arse, closes his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out. Doesn't think of anything. Just a blank nothingness, a grey-white space behind his eyelids, stretching out into the distance. 

He holds that in his mind the way Burke's taught him. Flicks away stray thoughts that slip through. Focusses. Breathes. 

Time seems to still. Holds fast. Draco can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each deep breath, but he loses count of them until he almost feels as if he's drifting out of his body, as if magic's twisting around him, pulling him loose in sudden wash of power. 

"Sprog," he hears from a distance, but he's slipping into the grey-white nothingness, into the even thrum of his pulse. 

And then there's a sharp pinch on his wrist, and he slams back into himself, his breath catching, his eyes opening, and Burke's crouched beside him, a frown on her face. 

"Oh thank Circe," she mutters, and she sits back on her heels, the navy cotton of her ankle-length trousers stretching across her knees. "You can't go that bloody deep, you twat."

Draco just blinks at her. "What?" He feels sleepy, his limbs heavy and thick. He turns his head; it takes a moment. 

Burke pinches him again, harder this time, and Draco yelps. He looks down at his forearm; there's a red patch just above his Mark. "That's going to bruise," he snaps.

"Good." Burke's glaring at him. "Maybe when you look at it, you'll remember to keep a happy medium. Just beneath the surface, you idiot. Not diving deep into it. Keep that up and you'll lose yourself in your magic." She looks a bit unnerved. "You've too much power to tap into, you realise."

Draco doesn't, not really. "I'm just tired."

Burke snorts. "Stop pretending you're not a strong wizard, sprog." Her face softens a bit. "I know things are hard for you right now, but you're good at this. Brilliant, really, and I don't want you to do anything stupid that's going to implode that brain of yours." She reaches out and taps Draco's temple. "Safety first, remember?"

"I know." Draco rubs at his forehead. It's starting to ache. "But I am tired."

"All right." Burke glances over at the clock. It's nearly half-four. "We'll call it a day?"

Thank fucking Circe. Draco nods and pushes himself to his feet. His body feels a bit shaky, a bit stiff. Burke, on the other hand, is nimble as a bloody teenager. Draco half-hates her in a way. 

But he doesn't. Not entirely. Burke's hard on him, but Draco likes her. More than he expected to, really. And he trusts her. She's been careful in his training, hasn't pushed into areas of his mind he's marked as private. And when he slips, she slams the door for him. Lets him have his space. 

Draco's glad of that. It makes this easier than it might be. 

He picks up his satchel, hefts it over his shoulder. "Monday then?" he asks, and Burke nods. 

"Saul wants to see us then too," she says. She looks a bit annoyed. "Bloody prat probably wants to make certain I haven't turned you against him."

"Would you?" Draco asks with a smile, and Burke grins at him. 

"Probably," she admits. "So he's not entirely paranoid."

Draco's just turned towards the door when it opens and Jake Durant steps in. Draco blinks in surprise. 

"Hey, Muriel," Durant says with a wide, easy smile. 

"Jake bloody Durant, as I live and breathe." Burke beams at him. "What the fuck are you doing back here? I thought you'd been sent back to New York."

Durant shrugs, his hands shoved in his pockets. He's in shirtsleeves and flat-fronted trousers that do nothing to hide the bulge of his prick, Draco notes. He feels his face heat, and he glances away as Durant turns that quick smile on him. "I'm back to help Barachiel Dee with the Dementor issue," he says. "Shacklebolt's orders, I guess. Heard you'd taken on Malfoy's training and I wanted to see how things were going."

"He's a smart little bastard." Burke comes up beside Draco, rests her elbow on his shoulder. "Aren't you, sprog?"

"I try." Draco doesn't want to smile at her, not in front of Durant, but he can't help himself. He glances Durant's way. "I'm better than I was."

Burke snorts, and she moves, coming to stand between Draco and Durant. "He's good. As natural as you were, Jake, and I never thought I'd see another like you."

Durant's looking at Draco, studying his face. "I'm glad." He folds his arms across his chest. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says to Draco. "I know that must make all of this that much harder."

It does, but Draco just shrugs, unwilling to admit it. "I'm fine," he says. He's fairly certain Durant doesn't believe him. Draco's all right with that, he thinks. 

Burke frowns at him. Draco looks away. 

"Well," Durant says after a moment. "I'm glad things are going well." 

There's an awkward silence that Burke breaks by saying, "I'm going down the Leaky for a pint. Jake, you interested?"

"I might be," Durant says. His gaze shifts to Draco. "You up?"

Draco shakes his head. "I've dinner plans," he says. "With Pansy and Blaise." Durant flinches a bit at that, and Draco's mouth tightens. So that's the lay of the land then, is it? Blaise is good enough for a shag or two but not to keep up with. Fuck Jake Durant, Draco thinks. He decides to turn the knife a bit. "Shall I say hello for you?" he asks, his gaze fixed on Durant's face. 

He's not surprised when Durant hesitates, then says, "Don't worry about it. I should probably be in touch myself."

"I'm sure you should." Draco lets his voice go arch, then cold as he asks, "Have you spoken with Harry?"

Durant meets his gaze then. "No." 

That ought to make Draco happy, but it doesn't. Not really. He's not certain he wants Jake Durant back in London, back in Blaise's life, or Harry's for that matter. Draco's worn out, and he feels plain and dull standing here beside Durant. He doesn't like feeling that way again. Still, he squares his shoulders and says, "I'll send your regards to him then."

"If you want." Durant's smile is back again, and Draco's unease grows. "But I really did just want to stop by and see you, Malfoy. Make sure you were doing all right."

Draco feels a bit of a heel. He doesn't entirely care. "I am," he says, and he lifts his chin a bit. He knows he's being an arsehole, knows that Burke's watching him with a curious, contemplative look on her face. He can't really stop himself. 

"Good." Durant studies him for a moment, then turns his gaze to Burke. "Muriel, I'll buy you that pint." 

"Won't hear me refusing that," Burke says cheerfully, but the glance she gives Draco is a bit worried. "Go home and rest this weekend, sprog. Whatever Saul has planned for us on Monday, we'll deal with it then."

Draco nods stiffly. "Thanks." He walks past them both, trying not to look back as he steps through the open door. He knows they're watching him as he walks away. 

He thinks he should care. He's too damned tired.

***

Blaise stretches his arm out to stroke the soft plum velvet of the banquette, half-listening to Pansy tell Draco about the latest advances in wizarding lipsticks and new formulas that don't rub off no matter how long you wear it--or how many blow jobs you give. Both of his friends are laughing, their heads bent together, silver-gilt and ebony, and Blaise thinks maybe all might just be right with the world for this little moment in time. The hum of the club is mellower now for a Friday night--it must be past ten, and the crowd at the bar is thinning out, couples going home for a half-drunken shag, groups wandering off to the sleazier nightclubs that stay open later, all dim lights and pounding music and lovely, lithe bodies swaying into each other.

They're back at the spin-off bar the young members from Blaise's club opened in Soho during the spring--they'd gone out for a lovely Thai in Kensington, then needed a more intimate place to drink. Blaise supposes they could have gone back to his flat, or Draco's, even--no one cares for Pansy's and the scent of burnt weed that drifts up from the flat below through the registers in the floor once the weekend begins--but really, he's enjoying being out too much to go home. London in the summer is glorious: the weather's not horridly wet, the tourists aren't too awful this year, and he's not missing Jake or New York at all. Terrible city, full of heat and concrete and sweating people. Blaise tries not to remember the view from the Millenium Hilton, the silver ribbon of the Hudson and the faint rosy hint of dawn on the glass buildings whilst Jake was biting at the inside of Blaise's thigh, his large hands cupping Blaise's arse possessively, tilting his hips up to meet Jake's mouth.

Blaise would never think of that. Not in the least.

"The new shades are just divine," Pansy's saying. "There's this pinky-brown nude lippie that would look incredible on you," Pansy eyes Draco, her gaze speculative. "I could dust your cheekbones with a contrast powder, or perhaps a bit of glitter. You've got such a lovely bone structure."

"No glitter," Blaise says, reaching to pick up his glass and drink out the bottom of his gin and tonic. He signals to the bar for the runner to come for the next round. It's a dark-haired witch today, trim and athletic, not the twink who gave Draco his number last time. Thank Circe. That would have been bloody awkward all around, Blaise thinks. "That shit gets bloody everywhere and stays." Blaise knows from experience--his own and that of a beautiful boy he'd fucked for two weeks after London Pride a few years back. He'd finally just thrown the whole bedding set out. Not even the strongest Scourgify had been able to get the glitter out of 400-count cotton. He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Especially not the guv.

Pansy shifts on the velvet banquette and frowns at him. "This is just highlighting powder, darling. The glitter effect's subtle." She pulls a bit of wine-soaked apple from her glass and eats it. It's a bit gauche, but Pansy always knows exactly what she can get away with. It's a signal that she doesn't care what you think, and it's devilishly attractive. In Blaise's opinion, Pans' fuck-off attitude is one of her very best traits.

Blaise sniffs at her now, the bite of lime and juniper from his drink still sparkling on his palate. "Do we even know if the guv's into drag? Some people run screaming at anything out of the ordinary."

"Oh, I doubt Potter's that sort--he strikes me as a kinky sod." Pansy's mouth quirks up at the corners. "Right, Draco?"

Draco huffs at her words, but it's only a mock-protest. They all know it. Frankly, Blaise thinks the guv probably is kinky, perhaps even kinkier than Blaise suspects he might be. Draco's sat across from Blaise, fiddling with his cocktail napkin, fraying the pressed edge, his distraction a clear confirmation of Blaise's suspicions.

It shouldn't be a surprise, Blaise supposes. Blaise fucked Jake as well; he has a fairly decent idea what the guv might have done during those two years he was off shagging that particular Durant.

Pansy eyes the blood red remnants of her sangria. "Besides, everyone likes a bit of gender play, don't they? Merlin knows I do." She looks over at Draco. "What about you two? Do share, darling." 

Draco drops the shredded cocktail napkin onto the table and takes a sip of his Boulevardier. He toys with the stem of his glass, the Campari staining his lips pinker. "Harry doesn't do it himself, I don't think, but I doubt he'd complain if I dressed up." 

From the studiously blank expression on Draco's face, Blaise thinks it might be a bit more than not complaining on the guv's part, and he's mildly curious, though he really has no desire to follow up on that line of thought. Blaise remembers Draco dressing as a witch on up several occasions, from a Hogwarts dare to a debauched Halloween during Auror training when they all went on a two-day bender over the weekend. Really, Draco looks amazing in drag, almost undetectable really. Blaise still has a small scar under his left elbow from that Halloween, and he still doesn't quite know how he arrived at it. He supposes a broken beer bottle was involved at some point, but Pansy and Draco don't remember either.

Blaise wonders for a moment if Jake is into drag too, if he and Potter had played around with it, if he'd fuck Blaise now if Blaise showed up on his doorstep in Brooklyn wearing a pair of Pansy's high heels and her shortest skirt. His heart twinges, and he pushes the thought down as quickly as it rises, but he's too late. Draco blinks at him wide-eyed and rather shocked. _That's unexpected,_ drifts through his mind in Draco's posh accent.

_Stop it_ , Blaise says mentally, uncomfortable and a bit randy, if he's honest. Draco only looks away, cheeks flushing. They're halfway to drunk, and Blaise supposes it's harder for Draco not to read their thoughts. Plus they do know each other so well. Still, he wonders if he ought to start learning Occlumency. 

_Probably._

Blaise gives Draco a sharp glare. 

"Sorry," Draco murmurs, lifting his drink. 

"Isn't it Potter's birthday on Monday?" Pansy glances between them with a frown, then she turns to Draco, her lips curving. "You could surprise him in that lovely black lace gown you lifted from the Manor attic when Theo dared you to wear it for fancy dress." Really, Blaise half-approves that idea; Draco'd been bloody stunning in it. Pansy props her chin on her hand. "Does your mother know you've got it yet?"

Draco laughs. "Of course not. And I've no idea where that is--it might be in my Hogwarts trunk. But yes. Maybe." He hesitates, then says, "By the by, I'd thought of doing a dinner party on Monday for Harry. At Grimmauld. You'll both be invited, of course. Along with Althea." 

Blaise is startled and starts to speak, but Draco raises a hand, glancing to the runner approaching their table. Once they've given their orders, Draco lowers his hand covertly and folds it with the other in his lap. "Mother and Aunt Andromeda and Teddy will be there, I hope." He chews his lip, turns his glass in his hand. "And I suppose I'll have to ask Granger and Weasley." Draco looks a bit uncertain, then he shrugs. "I'll send owls over the weekend."

"This is a big step," Blaise says, eyeing his old friend's face. "You're officially a couple now, aren't you?" He's proud of Draco and the guv, in a way, even if it's impossible to actually spend time with Draco now that he's shacked up with Potter, and Blaise is willing to admit he's envious too. He wouldn't mind someone to come home to either. And the guv's well fit--he looks like he could slam you up against the wall when you needed it. _Although not nearly as fit as Jake_ Blaise's mind supplies, and fuck but he's got to stop thinking like this. Blaise has stopped checking his texts, although he can't bring himself to delete the conversation Jake never responded to.

Pathetic of him, he knows.

Draco fiddles with the cuff of his grey silk shirt, frowning. His face pinkens a bit, in a charming way, Blaise thinks. "I suppose. It makes it easier that I'm in the Department of Mysteries now, although I hardly think we should take out an announcement in the _Prophet_ , all things considered." He smiles, but it's a bit fragile. "Although I suppose I should be glad that my father's gone. He'd have thrown a strop for the ages once he realised I really have no intention of settling down." Draco looks away, his smile fading. "The way he wanted at least."

But Blaise has already caught the haunted look in Draco's eyes. He glances at Pansy; she shakes her head almost imperceptibly. They're not talking about Lucius tonight, not unless Draco changes his mind. At the beginning of the evening, over spring rolls and tofu triangles, Pansy'd broached it, tried to ask how he was doing. Draco'd shut that topic down right away, said he wasn't really ready to talk about it, thanks ever so. They've been trying to respect his wishes all night.

"So, how is the Department of Mysteries going, old man?" Blaise knows better than to mention Lucius again. "Is it really so mysterious as they'd like us to believe?"

Draco nods, raising his eyebrows. "More than, really. I couldn't possibly explain." He pauses. "I'm mostly still learning Legilimency, of course. It's a bit dull, if I'm honest." He looks away, doesn't meet Blaise's eyes, and Blaise thinks it's obvious that Draco's lying. Blaise supposes it's going to become a habit, now, this secrecy between them. Draco clears his throat, glances back at Blaise. "How was Althea's first week as a sergeant?"

It's awkward, isn't it, this trying to talk about work when they don't share it any longer. Blaise wonders if it'll get easier when they all get used to it, or if it'll just push them apart, keep Draco at a distance from them. He sighs and reaches for his fresh gin and tonic.

"She's quite good at tearing strips off of us," Blaise says after a moment. "And chiding us for the slowcoaches we are." He takes a sip of drink--this one's even stronger than the one before. He looks over, raising his glass to the barkeep. Merle's on tonight, and she's a heavy pourer. He's never been more grateful.

"But she's not you," Pansy puts her hand on Draco's arm for a moment, then drops it to the table. "You know that."

And Blaise doesn't dare add that he knows Potter's obviously been missing Draco at work, that the guv's been looking up and then frowning every time someone else comes into the incident room. They've got to make a clean break, the two of them: Potter and Draco've made their bed--evidently together--and they've got to lie in it now. However hard it might be for them both.

Draco runs a finger over the rim of his glass. "Any news about my arse of an uncle?" His tone is light, but he's definitely fishing for information. "Is the murderous bastard anywhere nearby?"

"Yeah, we can't tell you anything. You know that," Blaise says, eyeing him. "Not without breaking about fifty interdepartmental rules." 

With a sigh, Draco says, "I know, but you can't blame me for trying." He looks over to Pansy, who's sizing up a handsome bloke at the bar. Blaise thinks he's much too short for his tastes, but he does bear a passing resemblance to Goldstein, which he supposes is why Pansy's looking. "Any news about Eustace, Pans?"

Pansy turns back to the table, a faint frown on her face. "The guv said he's fucked. In official parlance, he's heavily implicated in the case. They think he'll go to Oudepoort." She sips at her sangria, then dabs a napkin at her lip. A blood red drop stains her finger near the nail. 

Blaise is fairly certain there's something Pansy's not saying, probably about Eustace and Daisy. He'd bet good money her family's deep in the business with Dolohov in the States, but it's no good pushing right now. She'll tell them when she's ready, or once it's no longer dangerous. Blaise wonders when it became so dangerous for them to know things. As Slytherins, they were raised to trust no one, but the last weeks have been a testament to just how hard that can get, particularly with official duties in the mix.

"Tony's evidently staying in the States for now," Pansy says after a moment. "From what your boyfriend told me." She quirks an eyebrow at Draco again, who has the decency to blush.

"We're not--" Draco stops. "You know what, fuck it. We are. We're dating. He's my boyfriend." His face softens, his mouth curves up at the corner. Circe but Blaise has never been more jealous of his best friend. He has to look away, has to take a sip of his drink to steady his shaking hand.

Pansy waves generously with her wineglass, but somehow manages not to baptise the table. "Hey, at least you can be open. It's good that you've not got Titus sodding Gideon breathing up your arses for improper fraternisation or what have you."

"Well, the guv's been looking well tended to." Blaise purses his lips a bit, and there's a sharp edge to his teasing, more so than he means to come out. "So, yeah, you'd better be boyfriends, or there's something else going on."

Draco looks a bit angry, not that Blaise blames him. He's a shit, he knows, and he feels a stab of shame whilst Pansy tries to cover the sudden discomfort with a too-bright laugh. 

"As if Potter can glance at anyone else," she says. "Draco's got him wrapped around his little finger, haven't you, darling?"

Draco stares down at his drink, his cheeks flushed, then he looks up at Blaise, eyes narrowed. 

_Sorry_ , Blaise thinks, and he doesn't shift his gaze away. He knows he's forgiven when Draco's shoulders relax back against the banquette, and he reaches for his Boulevardier.

"Well," Draco says, "he does need a bit of ordering about. But at least he's become more biddable."

Blaise raises his glass, clinking it against Pansy's and Draco's. "Here's to biddability and Gryffindors doing what they're told!" They all drink, united for a moment in a uniquely Slytherin sentiment.

Draco smoothes a hand over his temple, long fingers following the loose fall of his pale hair. "I am worried, though," he says in a low voice, looking around for a moment to make sure no one is listening. "Especially in the current climate. It can't possibly be good for Harry to be seen with me, much less if our…" He hesitate, bites his lip. "Our relationship becomes public knowledge."

The look on his face is grim and sad. Blaise is surprised to find his heart clenches. Fuck, but it's mad how goddamned in love with the guv Draco is--putting Potter above himself like a bloody fucking Gryffindor, and Draco doesn't do that for many people. Just Blaise and Pansy, mostly, and even then that's not a given. 

"He's lucky to have you, old man," Blaise says finally. "Happiness isn't an easy thing to find, no matter what people say." Blaise should know, he thinks. 

Pansy covers Draco's hand with her own, squeezing lightly. "Don't worry about Potter. He'll be fine, Draco. If it comes out and people are shits, he'll just punch something or set it on fire, and then they'll give him a fucking medal."

They all laugh, although it's not far off true in Blaise's opinion. He takes the opportunity to beckon the runner for another round. He wishes it didn't beggar the imagination, the guv's ability to escape danger. He only hopes that Draco's wrong, that these feelings between them aren't going to be the thing that tarnishes the reputation of Harry Potter. Public opinion is a fickle thing, and the registration movement isn't helping at the moment. Perhaps a quiet summer will let some of the hatred die back down. Or someone might want to shut Barnabas Cuffe the hell up, he thinks. 

A half-hour later, the bar nearly empty, after they've toasted once again, this time to friendship, and set their drinks back down, Draco sighs heavily. "So."

"Oh, now, that's a tone I don't enjoy hearing," Pansy says. "What's wrong? You look a bit miserable, darling."

Draco comes to some sort of inward decision. "I'm going to tell Blaise something neither of you are going to like." He looks at Blaise. "And I shouldn't tell you, but we're half-pissed as it is, and I can't be a part of keeping it from you." He rubs the back of his neck and frowns. "Merlin, I hate this."

Blaise's stomach drops. His mind would race, if he weren't nearly two and a quarter sheets to the wind at the moment. He tries to imagine what might have Draco so worried, and comes up blank. Pansy leans in, her gaze fixed on Draco's face.

"Just say it," she says. "Is this about the guv? Althea? Work?"

Draco shakes his head, takes a deep breath. "Durant's back in London. He came into my Legilimency session today." Draco takes a sip of his drink whilst Blaise stares at him, gobsmacked. "It seems Graves sent him over to work with us at Croaker's request. And your grandfather's, I think."

As the fading tatters of his drunken serenity swirl around him, all Blaise can think is that his bloody mobile is still as blank as it has been all week. He takes a vicious swill of his drink, his stomach churning, his good mood ruined. "Oh," is all he can say. 

"I'm sorry, Blaise." Draco looks contrite. "Really I am."

Blaise takes another sip of his drink, his fingers tightening around the slick glass. _Bloody fucking arsehole_ , he thinks. _Why the hell hasn't he texted back?_

Draco just looks at him, and Blaise knows he's heard those thoughts. He doesn't fucking care. 

"Blaise," Pansy says, but he pulls away when she touches his hand. 

"Don't." Blaise sets his glass down with a thunk, gin spilling out over his thumb. He draws in an unsteady breath, his heart shattering inside of him. "Fuck that sodding bastard." He looks at Draco, his mouth tight. Blaise doesn't trust it not to tremble. "Fuck him to hell and back."

"I agree," Draco murmurs, and Blaise wants to punch him, wants to scream, wants to hate him for having everything Blaise wants, everything Blaise needs. 

Instead, he raises his hand for another round, looking away. Jake motherfucking Durant can fuck the fuck off.

Blaise doesn't know what else to say.

***

Harry's sat on the sofa in the library at Grimmauld Place, Hermione curled up at the other end, Ron in the armchair next to them both. A half-empty bottle of wine that Kreacher swore the house had spit out from some unknown space--probably the bloody still-hidden wine cellar, Harry suspects--perches on the end table, its cork beside it. The wine's good, and forty-one years old, if Harry can read the Roman numerals on the dusty label correctly. He reaches up, rubs his aching shoulder. It's not in the sling any longer. The Healer at St Mungo's this afternoon had lectured him about that. Hermione watches him, sympathetically, her wine glass dangling from her fingers.

"So they said you'd be all right, didn't they?" she asks. "I mean, with the potions. You'll get full movement back soon?"

Harry sighs. His wineglass is nestled in the small vee between his thigh and his bent knee. He picks it up, takes a sip before setting it back. "Yeah. Evidently I ought to have stopped immobilising it a week ago," he admits. "Let it move some." His shoulder twinges again. "I've cocked it up doing this, it seems." Locked his shoulder, the Healer who'd seen him had said, and Harry doesn't want to tell Hermione that if the potions don't work he's been threatened with physical therapy twice a week. Harry doesn't have bloody time for that, he thinks.

"And you'll actually take your potions this time?" Ron's slouched in the armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, knees spread wide. He sets his empty glass aside. "Not be a right twat about it?"

"Yes." Harry frowns, still thinking about how the fuck he'd manage to juggle work and two afternoons a week at St Mungo's, along with Freddie. And then anything Draco might need from him. Christ, he hopes it doesn't come to that. He looks over at Ron. "But I had them give me ones this time that won't fuck up my head. I told them I couldn't be foggy at work."

"More like for Malfoy." Ron gives Harry a long, steady look, and Harry feels his face grow warm. He shrugs and reaches for his wine glass, taking a sip. He's not going to deny it. 

"If he needs me," Harry says quietly. 

They're silent for a moment, then Hermione says, "He's doing well at work." She turns her glass between her hands, looking down as the pale wine sloshes up the sides. "Muriel Burke told me so. She thinks he's one of the best Legilimens she's seen in ages."

Harry feels a warm twist of pride. "Of course he bloody is." He hesitates, then asks, "How long are you lot going to keep him on a training schedule?"

"I don't know." Hermione takes another sip of her wine, looking at Harry over the rim of her glass. He knows she's contemplating how much she can tell him. When she lowers the glass, she just sighs. "Saul wants him out in the field quickly. He's qualified for defensive and offensive magic, so that helps. We'll just need to teach him a few Unspeakable tricks before he's released into the wild."

That makes Harry uneasy. "You'll keep him safe." He doesn't like the thought of Draco out there, doing dangerous things without Harry by his side.

Hermione's face softens. "As much as I can, Harry. I promise."

"I'm a tit, I know." Harry gives her a small smile. "It's just…" He trails off, uncertain as to what to say. How to explain it. 

"He's yours," Ron says quietly from his chair, and Harry looks over at him. "It's bad enough he's torn up about his dad. You don't want him hurt on top of it."

Harry nods, then says, "Or worse." And that's not something he wants to consider, Draco coming back from the field in a body bag. But it happens. Harry knows that. They all do. It's part of the job, as much as they all try to ignore it, to pretend it doesn't happen. 

Look at Winston Chang. Phoebe Rayne. Lotte Marquandt. 

The last thing Harry wants is to have Hermione standing in front of him, giving him that sort of news. He draws in an uneven breath, lifts his wineglass to his mouth. Ron's watching him, and Harry wonders how much he sees. 

He's glad his friends are here, though. Glad he'd asked them over for dinner whilst Draco was out with Parkinson and Zabini. He wonders if he and Draco have been too wrapped up in each other lately, if perhaps it's better for them to have some time apart. Harry misses Draco though. Wishes he were here beside him, curled up against Harry's side, that pale blond head resting on Harry's shoulder. 

"Mum wondered if you wanted to come over to the Burrow on Monday," Ron says, and Harry looks over at him. "For your birthday, since you're actually in the country this year."

"I can't." Harry shifts and his shoulder twinges again. He winces, tries to relax into the corner of the sofa. "Draco wants to do something for it." And that sounds so odd to him, he thinks. Draco Malfoy celebrating Harry's birthday. He gives Ron a faint smile. "Evidently I do it all wrong."

Ron snorts. "I can't say I disagree with him there." Ron's always told Harry's he's mental for not caring about his birthday; Hermione throws Ron a big party every year, and he loves it the whole of it. The people, the presents, the drinking. 

Harry's a hell of a lot more introverted than that. He rubs his palm against his jaw, the slight scruff scraping across his skin. "Fuck only knows what he has up his sleeve. It's Draco so I'd expect almost anything."

"Well it won't be tacky, I'm sure" Hermione sys. "Your boyfriend does have good taste." She smiles. "To a dogmatic degree."

"I can't argue that." Harry laughs, a warmth spreading through him. He's missed this, these nights with Ron and Hermione, and it feels good to have them here at Grimmauld. It's been too long, Harry thinks, and he's grateful that Draco had suggested it whilst he was dressing for dinner, looking over at Harry and telling him he needed to not be alone himself, that maybe it might be good for Granger and the Weasel to stop by. 

Ron had been surprised when Harry'd firecalled shortly after Draco'd left, but it'd only taken ten minutes for him and Hermione to show up. Harry'd thrown together some spag bol in the kitchen with Ron's help, as Hermione'd sat at the kitchen table, laughing at them both as they'd argued about the current Quidditch tables. It'd felt like the old days, back before they'd married and Harry'd gone off on his own.

Harry's not certain how he's managed since without them. He looks over at Hermione, then at Ron. "I've missed you both," he says after a moment. "I'm sorry I've been such a prat lately."

"You've had things going on the past few months," Ron says easily. "Nothing wrong with that. Life gets in the way sometimes, doesn't it, love?" He stretches a hand out to his wife; she takes it with a fond smile. Ron looks back over at Harry. "You're coming back to yourself, mate. Malf--" He frowns and says, "Draco's been good for you, I reckon. Much as I hate to admit it, given how much of a fucking wanker he was when we were kids.'

"He makes me feel more grounded," Harry says, his voice quiet. He shakes his head, laughs a little. "Mental to say that about a Malfoy, isn't it?"

Hermione shrugs. She's dropped Ron's hand, sat forward a bit, her bare feet crossed on the sofa. She looks young with her tight curls wild and loose around her head, her work makeup wiped off and her tailored dress swapped out for black yoga pants that hug her hips and a drapey, sleeveless purple top that gapes just a bit across her tits, giving them all an eyeful of her cleavage, which her husband rather likes, Harry thinks, judging by how he's been eyeing Hermione for the past hour or two. "I think he always did in a way," she says. She cups the bowl of her wine glass between her hands. "You _were_ constantly obsessed with him at Hogwarts. Maybe that's part of it. For you and Malfoy both." She looks up at Harry. "Now that I'm used to you together, it doesn't seem quite as mad. Not really."

"I suppose," Harry says. He listens to the house settling around them. He thinks it's grousing a bit that Draco's not there, the stairs creaking a bit unhappily, a rustle that sound almost like a sigh coming from the hearth. It's got used to having Draco about too, Harry thinks, and without him around, there's a quiet emptiness that Harry can't quite get entirely comfortable in.

Ron shifts in his chair; the leather creaks beneath his thighs as he pushes himself up a bit straighter. "How's he dealing with the Marchbanks and Hawkworth shit?" he asks. "I saw Cuffe's editorial today in the _Prophet_ suggesting it's time the Wizengamot bring the Death Eater legislation to the public floor instead of arguing about it behind committee doors."

Harry had too, over his toast and sausage this morning. He'd binned the _Prophet_ before Draco'd come down from his shower, setting it alight with an Incendio charm. It's not that he thinks Draco won't hear about it; he'd just not wanted Draco to start off the day with that bollocks hovering over him. "We're not really talking about it," he says after a moment. "If we can help it at least." The whole mention of the Registry just makes them both tense and angry and worried. Harry wants to pretend it doesn't exist, that the Wizengamot would never do anything that goddamned stupid, that they'll realise Marchbanks and Hawkworth as well are both off their fucking nut. 

But Harry's not so certain that'll happen any longer. Not with the rumblings he's been hearing this week in the Ministry, the whispers over the tea kettle in the Auror break room that maybe it's not the worst idea, maybe it would help them do their jobs better. Harry'd shut that down whenever anyone'd been idiot enough to say it in front of him, but that doesn't mean he's changed their minds, he knows that full well. They're just careful around him now, and he's seen the sideways looks when he's walked through the bullpen. 

Hermione presses her toes against his thigh. "Hey," she says, and Harry glances over at her. "We'll do what we can to keep it from happening, yeah?"

Harry knows the smile he gives her strained. "Yeah," he says, and they all fall silent for a moment. Harry picks up his wine glass and takes another sip, then sighs. "It's just this isn't what we fought for, you know? This kind of shit." 

"Lestrange's escape isn't helping," Ron says. He rubs his hand over his face, pushes his hair back from his forehead.It falls back over in a tumble of red-gold. "People are talking about it in Diagon. The Shopkeeper's Association's already sent out flyers about what to do in case of an attack. They're worried he's going to show up in a public place. Do something bloody stupid, you know?"

"We're watching that," Hermione says, but there's a troubled frown creasing her forehead. "Croaker's put a rotation of Unspeakables walking through--"

"Yeah, and they're not bloody obvious at all." Ron wrinkles his nose. "You can practically smell the spook seeping off them."

For a moment Harry thinks Hermione's going to lose her temper, but then she just huffs a laugh and settles back against the arm of the sofa. "He's put the newer ones in for now, and they're all bloody terrified they're going to cock up. I suppose I should tell him to add in some of the more experienced Unspeakables. Help them blend in a bit more."

Ron shrugs. "Maybe it's just me, being used to the two of you. I do have superpowers when it comes to sniffing out law enforcement."

"Which comes in handy," Harry says, "whenever George is pushing the magical experimentation laws in Diagon." 

"Never truer said, mate." Ron grins at him. "At least we've gone nearly three years without him blowing up one of the load-bearing walls and singeing half the stock of Flourish and Blotts, so there's that for the coffers."

Harry shakes his head. George doesn't give a damn about the fines, they all know that. Not once he's caught up in figuring out a new product line. 

The Floo flares to life in a rush of green flame, and Harry glances over just in time to see Draco stumble out of the fire, blinking owlishly at them all. 

"Oh," Draco says, and he sways just a bit. "You're still here." 

Harry checks his watch. "It's not half-eleven yet." He hides a smile as Draco catches himself on the back of a chair. "Are you pissed?"

"Only tipsy," Draco says, enunciating far too clearly for someone who's sober. His eyes are bright, and the lamplight in the room catches in his hair, makes it shine. He looks over at Hermione and Ron, and Harry can tell by the look on his face that his better self's struggling with his years of Slytherin training. The former wins out. "Granger. Weasley. How lovely to see you both."

"He's definitely pissed," Ron says with a grin that only widens as Draco elegantly flips two fingers his way then stumbles over to the sofa and flops down beside Harry. He takes Harry's wineglass from between his legs and drains the last bit of the dregs, handing it back to Harry who shakes his head, then sets it aside, beside the bottle itself.

"Sod off," Draco says, but Harry can tell he doesn't mean it, especially when he looks up at Harry, a crease between his carefully groomed brows, and presses his hand to Harry's shoulder, ever so gently. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Harry cards his fingers through Draco's loose hair. "No, love," he says with a faint smile. "I'm fine." He's not, at least not entirely--Draco's drop onto the sofa had been a bit jarring--and Hermione gives him a knowing look. Still, Harry likes the way Draco curls against him, tucked beneath Harry's good arm, his aching shoulder pressed into the sofa cushions. He kisses the top of Draco's head. "Did you have fun?"

"Mostly." Draco's eyes close, and he breathes out softly, and Harry almost thinks he's dozing off when Draco says, "Have you been talking about me then? You're all terribly quiet." 

"Arrogant of you, don't you think?" Ron asks, but he gives Draco an amused look. 

Draco yawns behind his hand, then opens his eyes, frowning at Ron. "It's not out of the realm of possibility."

Harry smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead. "I think we're all just tired. It's been a long week." 

"A long lifetime," Draco murmurs as Harry's fingers comb through his silky locks. He falls silent again. 

Hermione watches them both, a curiously gentle look on her face, and then she meets Harry's gaze. She smiles faintly, sets her wine glass down on the ground, and unfolds her long legs. "We should go home."

Ron's already pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He points it at Harry and Draco, snaps a picture, looking down at it. "Oh that's brill," he murmurs, then he glances up at Harry. "What? A bloke needs to have blackmail material on that one." He nods towards Draco who just opens one eye and frowns at Ron. 

"You've an odd idea what constitutes blackmail, Weasley," Draco says, and then he stretches, long and lean in his slightly rumpled grey silk shirt and his dark trousers. Harry wonders if Draco has any idea how beautiful he looks, especially when his hair falls in his face like this, and he's biting his lip, suppressing another yawn. Harry can't stop himself from touching Draco's cheek, smiling over at him, his breath catching at the heated look in Draco's eye. Draco's not that terribly pissed, Harry can tell, and he thinks some of it might be put on for Ron and Hermione's sake.

But Hermione's already standing, reaching for her shoes. She doesn't bother to put them on; they're only Flooing back to their own flat, Harry knows. She bends down to kiss Harry's cheek, and he smells roses on her soft brown skin. "Have a good night," she murmurs in Harry's ear, softly enough that Draco can't hear her, and when she pulls back, she's smiling down at them both. 

Ron comes up behind her, wraps his arm around her waist. "Home, then, darling?" he asks, and he nuzzles her ear. "Malfoy might be pissed, but I'm not." His other hand goes down to her arse, cups it, and Hermione laughs and swats it away. 

"Don't be awful." Hermione glances over at Harry, reaches out and touches his cheek. "We should do this again." 

"Yeah." Harry means it. He lets his hand run across Draco's shoulders. "I'd like that." 

And then Ron's bundling Hermione into the Floo, both of them calling back their farewells before disappearing in a flash of green flames, their laughter still echoing in the quiet of the library. 

Draco breathes out, settles back against Harry's shoulder. "Sorry," he says after a moment. "I could have stayed out longer, I suppose, but Blaise was starting to sulk."

"Really?" Harry looks over at him. "I thought you had fun."

"Until I was stupid enough to mention Jake bloody Durant was in the Ministry today," Draco says, and he glances at Harry when Harry stiffens. "You didn't know either."

"Why would I?" Harry frowns. He doesn't like the idea that Jake's back without him knowing. "Hermione didn't mention it either." 

Draco sighs and sits up, pushing his hair back out of his face, tucking it behind his ears. "Maybe she doesn't know. He said he was back to help Blaise's grandfather with the Dementors." Draco shrugs, but the glance he gives Harry is tinged with unhappiness. "Does it bother you?"

Harry takes his time answering. "Not for the reasons you're thinking." He doesn't look away from Draco. "It's just odd, having him show up like this." Harry'd known it would happen eventually. He'd just hoped it might take a bit longer, if he's honest. Jake's a cloud over their relationship in a way, and as much as Draco's more confident in what they have together, less jealous of Jake to an extent, Harry knows it's not easy for him either. It's not as if Harry'd be thrilled if Nicholas sodding Lyndon walked in his office door and sat down. 

"I suppose." Draco twists a lock of his hair around a finger, frowning. "But I'm more worried about Blaise, if I'm honest." He gives Harry a cautious, sideways look. It's a subject they skid away from usually, the fact that one of Draco's best friends has shagged Harry's ex, wants to shag him again. And it only complicates matters that Zabini's under Harry's command. Harry wonders what Titus Gideon would have to say about that, if Professional Standards would see that little wrinkle as an issue to be considered. Probably, Harry thinks, but then again, if they were to get hung up on Aurors shagging other Aurors' exes, half the force would be brought in on conduct charges, wouldn't they?

Harry frowns. "I'm not going to be angry with Zabini, you know that."

Draco shakes his head and sighs. "It's not that." He chews on his lip, then says, "Durant didn't tell Blaise he was coming. He hasn't even rung him up, texted, anything. Not since they've been back."

"Oh." Harry rubs his hand along the back of his neck. His hair curls over his fingertips. "Zabini's upset then."

"He won't admit it," Draco says, "but yeah." 

Harry doesn't really know what to say. He feels awkward and uncertain, so he just looks at Draco. "That's rough."

"It is." Draco falls silent, leans back against the sofa cushions. There's an odd space between them now, both physically and in some way Harry doesn't really know how to describe. He doesn't like it, though, but when he puts his hand out, Draco doesn't take it.

The house grumbles around them, the eaves creaking overhead. 

Harry glances over at Draco. He looks sad and tired. "Hey," Harry says finally, and Draco looks up. "Stop worrying." 

Draco doesn't say anything at first; he just looks back down at his hands, his fingers tugging at each other, rubbing across his knuckles. Harry can hear them crack lightly when Draco pulls at them. Draco sighs. "He makes me feel…" Draco trails off, then shrugs. "I don't know. Wanting in some way."

"Jake?" Harry asks, and Draco nods. 

"I don't hate him," Draco says. "He's not awful. But he's...him." Draco looks over at Harry. "And I'm just me."

Harry wants to touch Draco. He doesn't dare. Not yet, at least. "And you're the one I'm arse over tit for."

Draco gives him a half-smile. "I know. But I still feel…" He stops, obviously searching for the right word. "Less," he says after a moment. 

"That's bollocks and you know it," Harry says, sitting up. His shoulder hurts; he ignores it. He's glad his sling's gone when he reaches for Draco, his hands closing over Draco's elbows. He pulls Draco forward, over his lap, and he doesn't give a damn how badly it makes his arm hurt, especially when Draco's twisted across his thighs, looking up at Harry. "You bloody thick arsehole," Harry murmurs, and he lets his fingertips slide over Draco's cheek. "To me, you're worth a million of Jake. You always came first, don't you know that? You're the one I was trying to replace with him, the one I've evidently been mad about since I was fifteen. Even my friends agree."

Draco's breath catches. He's watching Harry, his eyes bright and oh so very grey, his hair spilt across Harry's denim-clad thighs. "Am I?"

Harry snorts. "Don't be a twat. You know this. You're my original blond prat." He smoothes a palm over Draco's temple, lets his fingers tangle in Draco's hair. "I evidently have a fucking type. Arrogant, arsehole gits with perfect blond hair and the ability to read my sodding mind." He leans forward, lowers his voice. "Wonder how that particular fetish developed in my adolescence."

"I'd never know." Draco's smiling up at him, and that furrow of unhappiness is easing from his brow, to Harry's relief. And then Draco says, in a quiet voice, "Tell me you love me, Harry."

"Christ, Draco." Harry can barely speak. "You know I do." 

Draco's smile shifts. Fades. "Say it."

Harry realises this is important to Draco, understands that he needs to hear the words. "I love you," he whispers, and Draco's eyelids flutter closed for the briefest of moments. 

And then Draco's shifting, sliding off the sofa onto his knees, pressing himself between Harry's thighs, his hands sliding up Harry's legs, his mouth soft and slightly open. 

"Merlin," Harry breathes out, when he looks down and sees Draco pushing at Harry's t-shirt, reaching beneath it for the buttons on Harry's jeans. He lifts his hips when Draco tugs at the denim, his fingers hooked through Harry's belt loops, and the jeans slide down just enough for Draco to see the white cotton of Harry's y-fronts and the curve of Harry's already swelling prick through them. "You're not sober, love."

"More than you think." Draco looks up at him. "Pansy cast a Sobering Charm on me half an hour ago. I just drank a bit more before I came home." He gives Harry a wry smile. "Stupid of me."

Harry just watches him. "I just--" And then Draco shushes him, and Harry falls silent.

Draco leans forward, mouths at Harry's cock through the soft fabric, his fingers still caught in the folds of Harry's jeans. His hair falls forward, over his face, and Harry shivers as he feels the light scrape of Draco's teeth across his pants. 

When Draco leans back, Harry wants to protest, but he catches himself. Draco pushes his hair back; his cheeks are pink, his mouth full, and his voice is a bit rough as he looks up at Harry and says, "I _really_ want to suck your prick. Quite enthusiastically."

Harry just nods, and he helps Draco push his y-fronts down, tucking the elastic beneath the swell of his bollocks. His prick is half-hard already, the head pushing out from Harry's foreskin, ruddy and starting to get slick. Harry wants to feel Draco's mouth on it, wants the flick of Draco's tongue across his wet slit. But Draco just looks at Harry's fattening cock, his rosy lip caught between his white teeth. 

"Merlin," Draco murmurs, and he reaches out with one fingertip, lets it drag across the swell of Harry's prick, down along the velvet sheath of Harry's foreskin. "No one has a cock like yours, Harry." His finger slips along Harry's shaft, down to the root, then over the soft fur of Harry's bollocks. His gaze flicks back up to Harry's face. "You've no bloody idea how beautiful it is, do you?"

Harry swallows, then shakes his head. No one's worshipped his cock the way Draco does, no one's looked at him that way, as if Harry's prick is a goddamned priceless treasure, more so than the Queen's bloody jewels locked away in the Tower. 

Draco's barely touching him, but Harry's so fucking hard he can't stand it. The lightest shift of Draco's fingertip across Harry's skin makes Harry want to shudder, to jerk. He can't tear his gaze away from Draco on his knees, the flush on Draco's cheeks spreading, slipping down his throat, beneath his collar. Draco's mouth is half-open, his lips soft. Harry wants to push his hips up, to shove his cock deep into Draco's throat, to feel Draco suck him, work the length of him with his lips and his teeth. 

A tremor goes through Harry at the thought. He licks his lips, breathes out. "Draco," he whispers, and Draco looks up at him again. "Please."

"Ask me again," Draco says, his voice so bloody soft. He's watching Harry, and the tip of his tongue slips out, slides across his bottom lip. Harry's chest hurts; he breathes in sharply.

"Suck my prick, Draco," Harry chokes out. "For fuck's sake."

Draco's smile grows a bit sharper. "You forgot something."

Harry closes his eyes, exhales. When he opens them again, Draco's still watching him, his hands splayed wide across Harry's thighs. "Please," Harry says, and the word catches in the back of his throat. His hand curves around Draco's cheek; his thumb strokes along the sharp angle of Draco's jaw, over the soft swell of Draco's mouth, pulling lightly at Draco's bottom lip. "Please suck me off, baby."

"Fuck," Draco says, and his eyes are wide. He nips at Harry's thumb, sucks the tip into his mouth, and Harry swears his heart stops for a moment. And then Draco pulls back, lets Harry's thumb pop free. "I want…" But he doesn't finish the thought. Instead he dips his head forward, his mouth closing around Harry's shaft. Harry's head falls back, his shoulders sink into the sofa, and he gives in to the shuddering sensation of Draco's lips moving down the underside of his prick, Draco's tongue tracing the path of his vein. 

It feels incredible, Harry thinks, and Draco licks him slowly, one hand cupping Harry's bollocks in his palm, soft and warm and pliant against Draco's fingertips. Harry stretches his arms out, despite the shiver of pain that goes through his bad shoulder. He grips the back of the sofa, breathes out. "Jesus," he says. "You're the best cocksucker…" He breaks off into a sharp breath as Draco's tongue slides over the head of Harry's prick, the tip pushing into Harry's slick slit. 

Draco's looking up at him, his tongue pink and wet as it flicks across the fat head of Harry's cock. His breath is warm against Harry's skin when he asks, "Am I?" His hands slide up, beneath Harry's t-shirt, his fingers soft and smooth as they move over Harry's skin. "No one's sucked you better, have they?"

"No," Harry says on a quiet exhale. He thinks the lights have dimmed around them, but he can't tell; he doesn't want to tear his gaze away from the sight of Draco between his thighs, mouth soft and wet against Harry's prick. "No one ever has."

And he means that. It's never been like this with other people, and Harry's had his cock in plenty of willing mouths. Draco's different. More open, more intense. It's almost as if Harry can feel the soft slide of Draco's thoughts against his, the sensations of how he tastes and feels against Draco's tongue mingling with Harry's own swells of pleasure each time Draco takes him into his mouth. Harry swears he can taste the salty-sweetness of his prick, can feel the velvet hardness as Draco's mouth slides down his shaft, pushing Harry's foreskin back with his lips. 

"Oh God," Harry says, and his fingers tighten against the worn leather of the sofa. It's almost too much; he closes his eyes, tries to push his Occlumens back into place, but it's halfhearted at best. Draco's all around him, overwhelming his sense, making him feel so sharply, so intensely. 

_Mine,_ he hears in the deepest recesses of his mind, the soft, quiet echo of Draco's voice. _You're mine._

Yes, he thinks, and his fingers dig into the leather again as Draco's mouth slides further down. He can feel himself go deeper, and he looks down, sees the way Draco's eyes are watering. "You don't have to--"

_Shut up._ Draco's voice is louder now. _And for God's sake, fuck my throat, you bastard--_

Harry groans, and then his fingers are twisting in Draco's hair, pulling Draco down further onto his prick, his hips pressing up. Draco swallows around him, and Harry shudders, letting Draco pull back just enough before he pushes up again, feeling Draco's excitement rising with each quick roll of Harry's hips. 

"Kinky sod," Harry manages to get out, but Draco's pulling Harry's hands to the back of his head, and Harry knows what Draco wants, can see it in his mind. He pushes Draco back down again, filling Draco's throat with his cock, and Harry can feel the hot prickle of desire spreading across his skin, making his breath catch. 

Draco sucks him harder, his fingers digging into Harry's hips, holding on as Harry presses up, so hard that Draco gasps and groans, his own hips canting, twisting to rut against Harry's calf. It's nearly enough to send Harry over the edge, the feel of Draco's hard length rubbing against his leg through Draco's trousers, the knowledge that Draco wants him this much, needs him. 

"I love you," Harry gasps, and his hands twist in Draco's hair, pulling him down again as Harry's stuffs his prick into Draco's wide mouth. "Christ, Draco, you've no fucking idea--" Harry arches his back, twists his hips up. He's so close; he can feel it sparking across his body, bright and hot, pounding through his veins, his heart, his throat.

_Come for me_ , Draco whispers into Harry's mind, and that's all it takes for Harry's whole body to shake, to clench, and he's shouting, his fingers scrabbling at Draco's hair, at the sofa cushion beneath him, his hips bucking up, his shoulder screaming in a burst of pain that's lost in a wave of shuddering pleasure that wracks through Harry's body, lifting him up, spilling himself into Draco's mouth, down his throat, and Draco swallows and swallows more, choking on Harry's prick, sucking him down, Harry's spunk smearing over Draco's mouth, his cheeks, his chin. 

Harry falls back against the sofa, spent. Gasping. His mind's shivering, bright and cold and hot and sparkling. "Oh, God," Harry says finally. "Oh, fuck."

Draco lets Harry's softening prick slip out of his mouth. He looks smug, pleased, despite the sticky slickness covering his face. "You're welcome," he says, and his voice sounds raw and rough, and Harry knows his prick did that, and he groans softly.

He's tired, but he can't stop himself from reaching for Draco, pulling him up over him. He takes his glasses off, folds the legs in, sets them aside. "Straddle me," Harry says, and Draco does, Harry's hands already tugging at Draco's zip, pushing his silk shirt up. "Get this out of the way, for Christ's sake."

"Fuck, Harry." Draco's breathing hard, and his fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, pulling them free, letting the shirt slide from his shoulders, held in place only by the cuffs at his wrists.

And then Harry has Draco's trousers open, pushed down over the swell of his pale arse. "No pants," Harry says, looking up at Draco, and Draco just blinks down at him, already too far gone to care. 

"Please." Draco's holding himself up with one hand on the back of the sofa, the other on the arm. His shirt stretches out behind him, a soft silk wing across his back, fastened to his forearms, holding him bent forward, arched above Harry. 

Harry slides down, his hands on Draco's bare hips, his body slipping beneath Draco's spread thighs. Draco's prick bobs in front of Harry's face, long and pink and wet and beautiful, just begging for Harry's mouth to envelop it. 

Draco shudders when Harry sucks him in, his tongue swirling beneath the rim of Draco's foreskin, pushing it back, flattening against Draco's slick head. Harry can feel Draco's slit flutter against him, can feel it opening against his tongue, can taste its seeping saltiness.

"Merlin," Draco says on a soft exhale, and his body arches forward, pushes his prick deeper past Harry's lips. He looks down at Harry, his hair falling forward, his arms flexed against the sofa, and he's breathless, his chest heaving slightly. "Harry," he whispers. "Look at you. Stretched around me…" He draws in a shivering sigh, and Harry sees a flash of himself in his mind, slouched down beneath Draco, his mouth open around Draco's cock, cheeks hollowing with each slow suck, his eyes so very wide and green without his glasses. 

Harry's hands move around to the soft curve of Draco's arse. He presses and grasps, pulling at Draco's arsecheeks, holding him wide as he trails the flat, wide pads of his fingers through Draco's crease, over the velvety pucker there. Draco catches his lip between his teeth, rocks his hips forward with a quiet moan as Harry strokes across Draco's hole, the tip of his smallest finger just barely pushing in. 

"Oh." Draco presses his lips together, and Harry can feel the tremble that goes through Draco's muscles. "Yes." 

_Say the spells,_ Harry thinks, looking into Draco's wide eyes, and Draco stills, his quick, shallow gasps loud in the silence of the room. And then Draco says them wandlessly, the ones that loosen his hole slightly, that slick it just enough for Harry to work his finger past the tight ring. He has more power, Harry thinks, since he started working on his Legilimency, and he wonders what else he has to see of Draco Malfoy.

Draco doesn't move for a long moment. He licks his lips, watching Harry, who lifts his head just enough to take Draco deeper into his mouth whilst pushing another fingertip into Draco's arse alongside the first.

And then Draco breathes out, and says, "Please fuck me, Harry," pressing his arse back against Harry's hand, and Harry starts moving his fingers, twisting them, pushing them further into Draco's tight, slick hole, feeling Draco's prick filling his mouth, stretching his lips wide. 

Harry loves this, loves looking up and seeing the way Draco's shoulders flex and arch, the way Draco's head falls back, his neck long and pale in the lamplight. He fucks Draco harder, works another finger into him, pressing and pushing and twisting until Draco's skin is slick with sweat, flushed pink with want. He looks beautiful above Harry, so wanton, so needy, and Harry thinks he can lie here forever, watching this gorgeous creature writhe and moan over him. 

"Your mouth," Draco's gasping. "Circe, I'm going to fuck your perfect mouth, Harry." His head falls forward, his hair catching on his damp cheek. "Look at you, taking me in--" He breaks off into a groan as Harry twists his fingers inside of him, making Draco's thighs shake. "Fuck, I love you, you bastard." His breath is coming in sharp, ragged gasps. "Make me come, Harry. I want to--" Another twist of Harry's fingers, and Draco's shoving his cock into Harry's mouth, keening sharply, brightly, his shoulders hunched and shaking. "I--fuck, oh, Harry--" 

And Harry can feel it building in Draco, can feel the way his body's shaking, can see the way his eyes lose focus, the way his mouth opens. Draco trembles, tightens, grips the back of the sofa. "I'm--"

_Let yourself go,_ Harry thinks, and he doesn't even know if Draco can hear him, if Draco even notices because Draco's body jerks at that very moment, spasms above Harry, and he's crying out, loud and wild and full of need. 

Harry drinks him down, holds Draco's hips firm, keeps him upright as Draco's prick spurts in his mouth, his spunk bitter and sweet. Harry loves the taste of Draco, loves the feel of him in his mouth, loves the slump of Draco's still shaking body above him, loves the way Draco lets Harry drag him down until they're both on the floor, Harry's back against the sofa, Draco still straddling his thighs. 

When Harry presses his face against Draco's throat, he can smell the muskiness of their sweat, the sharp tang of the liquor Draco's drunk through the night, the powdery spice of his cologne, the faint odor of their spunk on each other's breath. Draco turns his head, catches Harry's mouth with his. The kiss is slow and easy, careful and sweet. 

Draco pulls back, and his face is soft and relaxed, his shirt still half-off his arms. He laughs softly, his hands cupping Harry's face. "Circe, you're amazing. You know that, yes?"

"I think you might have screamed it out a time or two recently." Harry smiles up at him, runs his hands along the smooth curve of Draco's back. 

"Prat." Draco unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, lets it drop to the floor. He looks beautifully debauched, his softening prick hanging out of his trousers, his hair mussed and rumpled, his cheeks high with colour. He sighs, but it's one of relief. Satisfaction, even, Harry thinks. "Fuck, I needed that."

Harry traces the pink of Draco's areola, lets his thumb scrape over Draco's still-hardened nipple. Draco hisses, then pushes Harry's hand away. 

"Don't be a twat," Draco says.

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Feeling a bit less threatened by Jake now?"

Draco kisses him again, quick and hard this time. "After that, I'd say there's no reason for me to be." 

"Not particularly, no." Harry watches as Draco shifts back over Harry's thighs, pushes himself to his feet, wriggling out of his trousers in the process. He looks incredible naked, Harry thinks, and he lets his gaze drift down Draco's long, pale body. "Going somewhere?"

"To bed." Draco hides a yawn with the back of his hand. "If you'd care to join me."

"I might be convinced," Harry says, hooking a foot around Draco's bare calf, trying to pull him back down, wanting to feel that smooth expanse of skin pressed against his body once more, but Draco sidesteps him and gives him a frown. 

"Harry. Bed." 

The lights go out in the library, then glow bright in the hallway. 

"Have I mentioned how much I hate it that my house likes you best?" Harry pushes himself to his feet, strips his own clothes off as Draco moves towards the doorway. He drops them on the floor beside Draco's, then follows. 

Draco looks back at him from the staircase, a small smile curving his lips. "It's not my fault it's mad about me."

Harry comes up behind him. "It just has good taste?"

"Something along those lines," Draco says with a laugh, and he starts up the stairs, Harry on his heels. Above them the bedroom door opens, warm light spilling onto the landing. 

The rest of the house grows dark, quiet. 

And Harry's certain he smells the delicate, fragrant scent of roses drifting down the staircase.

"I'm happy too," he murmurs, his fingers brushing the bannister. 

Draco looks back. "What was that?"

Harry just shakes his head. "Bed," he says, and he trails Draco into the bedroom.

The house settles quietly, contentedly around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> A reminder that the chapters will be shorter and more numerous this fall. This is the third of fourteen. The next chapter should be up on Sunday, September 17th. And oh, this is the first one I feel comfortable adding established relationship to, so there's that!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco plans a surprise, Blaise is surprised, and Camilla Hirsch Parkinson _isn't_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Special Branch, Harry Potter Birthday edition. All action in this chapter takes place in one day, and several of the threads overlap. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing. Endless love to sassy-cissa for her lovely comments and incredible logistical support whilst quite under the weather--I hope you're mending, dearest--and to noe for getting things unstuck at a crucial time and generally bolstering the production this week.
> 
> Shout outs to jadepresley for [this fucking incredible Jake Durant aesthetic](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/164767791621/femmequixotic-bixgirl1-ff-sunset-oasis), daysundercover for [the Tales from the Special Branch murderboard](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/165330125040/daysundercover-tales-from-the-special-branch) (seriously - so amazing! I've made it my desktop on my laptop for easy writing reference, lol), mea_momento for [this amazing Pansy Parkinson art](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/165310525253/mea-momento-constable-pansy-parkinson-of-the), and massive squee to the drarry squad, to whoever keeps putting in those lovely asks about Jake surviving without sex (I NEED TO ANSWER THOSE OH MY GOD GOTTA GET CAUGHT UP I HATE BEING AT WORK SOB), to phd-mama and bixgirl1 with love, to chibaken for the [Kinky Kinky Kinky list](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/164843564455/list-of-kinky-mostly-hd-fics) which has been super, um, inspirational, and to all of you amazing, heart-wrenching, PERCEPTIVE readers. <3
> 
> PS I know many of you will be happy that the pearls are back. *nods*
> 
> PPS I planned that before y'all started asking for it. LOLOLOLOL.

The air's cool but humid when Draco steps out the front door of Grimmauld Place early on Monday morning. Once the sun's high, it's going to be a warm day. Draco can feel that much in the weight of the air around him. He's left Harry still asleep in bed; dawn's only just started to break across the tops of buildings and trees. Draco stretches on the steps, loosens up his body, makes certain the laces on his trainers are tight. He twists his hair up off his face, secures it with a simple black hair tie. It'll come loose soon enough, sticking uncomfortably to the sweaty nape of his neck, or worse yet, his cheeks, but for now he likes the feel of faint breeze on his skin, ruffling the small hairs that can't be pulled high.

When Draco steps onto the pavement his whole body lights up. He hasn't run enough lately; he knows that. It's felt too difficult, too much to pull himself out of bed this early. He'd rather spend it curled around Harry, trying to gird his loins for the day ahead, telling himself that he's had plenty of exercise through shagging. Which is not wrong, in a way. Harry's ridiculously fond of athletic sex, and Draco's feeling muscles being used that he hasn't felt in years really. His abdomen's taut, his arse tight and high. Still, he's missed this, the slow slap of his trainers against the dry pavement as he starts off, easing into a brisker pace as he rounds the corner, away from the row of tall grey townhouses trimmed in white. 

He's not certain yet where he's going. It feels odd to run these Islington streets, if he's honest. He's used to his routes near his Regents Park flat, the northern ones that wind through Chalk Farm and Highgate Road, taking him up to Hampstead Heath, or the southern routes that bring him towards the Thames and Westminster, right to the Ministry's doorstep. Islington feels different. Quieter, more still in a way, and Draco finds himself making his way towards the canal path, turning towards Camden and its locks. The water laps against the canal sides, a soft, wet slap that echoes the sound of Draco's trainers against the pavement. He passes canal boats moored alongside the path, jewel-toned with names like Clementine and Betty and Lambkin painted in elaborate script on their prows, their flat tops covered with solar panels and small gardens filled with veg and bright flowers. 

The path rises as Draco nears the first lock, and he feels the stretch in his calves, the strain in his breath. Merlin, but he needs to run more, he thinks, cursing himself for falling out of practice. He'd used the hotel treadmills in New York, but it's not the same as being out in the streets, feeling the twists and turns of the terrain beneath his feet. 

Still, Draco can feel the rush of endorphins going through him, pushing him along the path. Past the retaining walls he can hear the city starting to wake around him, the blare of lorry horns, the rumble of traffic through the unseen streets. He runs faster, his breath coming rough and uneven, his mind filled with nothing but the pleasure of running like this, his t-shirt starting to stick to his back, his shorts hitting the sides of his thighs with each long, steady stride. He runs past the slick black painted facade of the Con Cellar Bar, with its bright white and fuchsia mural of jazz musicians beside the black and white steel curve of the St Pancras Way bridge. 

The graffiti beneath it is stark and sharp against the flat brown bricks, curled and curved white letters outlined in black, marks that mean nothing to the passers-by. But Draco can feel their power as he runs by, that simple magic that even Muggles can do when they try, the way they claim bits and pieces of the city as their own, imbue the very bricks and earth with their presence, leaving behind their own imprint on the face of the city itself. 

And Draco remembers how he loves London, how it's his city, his home, his place. New York had been exciting, different, fresh. A temptation in a way, he thinks, a space he could be with Harry, free and open, and Draco misses that desperately. 

But he knows these streets that his ancestors helped to build for centuries, feels them deep in his soul with every smack of his trainers against the pavement. As much as Draco loves Harry, he loves London too, and it feels good to be back. Comfortable in a way that he's only just now allowing himself to indulge. 

Draco takes the ramp up to Royal College Street, dodging a ginger woman in a battered Vauxhall when he crosses the street, then makes a sharp left at the bright blue bridge, _Camden Road_ spelled out in tall, white letters. He feels more comfortable here, in this part of London he'd lived in just out of Hogwarts. Pansy's flat is nearby, and he wonders if he should pop in, have a cuppa whilst she's waking up. But the burn in his legs and his lungs is too enticing. He runs through Camden, pushing himself as hard as he can, and his feet find a solid rhythm that carries him through the streets without him noticing, that focuses him on nothing but his breath and the flow of the traffic around him on the not-quite-as-empty roads. 

He's surprised when he finds himself on his own street, standing outside his building, looking up at the tall front windows of his sitting room. He bends over, breathing hard, his hair sliding loose from the tie, catching on his sweaty skin. He hasn't been here in over a week. Not since the day after his father's funeral, when he'd fallen apart in the biscuit aisle at Sainsbury's and Harry'd refused to let him come back here alone. 

Slowly, Draco straightens. Walks up the two steps to the door. He doesn't need a key for the building. The wards open to him immediately when he touches the doorknob. 

His breath sounds loud in the silent foyer; the boards creak beneath his feet as he walks down the hallway. Draco tries to be quiet; the last thing he wants is to rouse Frances Rosetree from behind her bolted door. He's certain she's noticed he's not been in his flat, and he'd rather not answer any probing questions. She's a terrible gossip; one wrong word and his whole personal life will be spread across the Ministry. 

When he opens the door to his flat, the silence is nearly overwhelming. It's clean and tidy inside; his mother had evidently cleaned it before leaving for his Aunt Andromeda's house. But it has that slightly disused smell now, that faint funk of a closed-up house. Draco walks in, lets the door fall shut behind him in a too-loud clatter of locks and bolts. Even his pile of trainers beside the door looks neat, each pair lined up along the baseboard instead of being kicked free. Draco squats beside them, pulls out his second favourite pair. He'll take them back with him, he thinks, and he sets them on the chimneypiece above the hearth before moving down the hall. 

The curtains are drawn on the sitting room; the cooling charms have still held, and the potted plants don't look worse for wear. His mother must have set a self-watering charm on them, Draco suspects, sticking his finger into the damp earth filling the thick white-glazed pots. 

"At least I haven't a pet," he murmurs, and he steps across the hall into the kitchen. Everything looks spotless. Pristine. All the dishes have been put away, although he knows the cabinets are missing a few plates and bowls his mother'd shattered that last day. At least the ones that had been beyond a Reparo.

Draco walks over to the window, opens it. There's a small pile of post that's been left in the wire basket hanging from the windowsill. He rifles through it, bins most of the adverts. His hand stills, though, on one thick, heavy-paper envelope. There's a name written in black ink on the corner. _Archibald Burke._ His father's solicitor. 

For a moment, Draco wonders how closely old Archie's related to his Muriel. Not by blood, he supposes. He thinks Muriel was married to a Burke, not one by birth. Still. It's one of those odd twists, the realisation of how small the wizarding world truly is. 

He closes the window and wards it, the letter still clenched tightly in his hand. It feels thick and expensive, and Draco can almost smell the musty wood panelling and polished floors of Burke's ancient offices. 

Draco sits at the table, staring at the envelope. His stomach twists; he turns it over, his thumb smoothing across the raised imprint of Burke's seal, the gold wax cold and hard beneath his touch. He knows what it is; he's surprised the owl hadn't delivered it to Grimmauld Place, but Burke had always been a stickler for propriety. If the letter was addressed to Draco's flat, the owl would deliver it there. None of this new-fangled forwarding for Archie Burke, thank you ever so much. 

To be honest, Draco doesn't want to open the envelope. Doesn't want to make any of this more real than it already is. He's been living in a fantasy world this past week, hiding away from all of his responsibilities when it comes to his father's death. He's barely even spoken to his mother. Just a few firecalls, usually at times when Draco knows she won't want to linger and chat. He's promised her he'll come over, that they'll have lunch soon. Draco'd meant to this weekend, even, but he hadn't wanted to leave Harry's side. 

Harry keeps Draco calm. Makes him feel less overwhelmed. Draco knows he can't hide behind Harry forever, but for the moment it's been a relief. Still, Draco knows he has to do his duty. Has to be the one who steps into his father's shoes, who looks after the family interests. Not that his mother couldn't, if she wanted, but Draco knows she won't want to, at least not yet. 

So it's up to Draco isn't it? Even Archie Burke thinks so. 

Draco takes a deep breath and breaks the seal, bits of wax scattering across the table. He pulls the letter out. Unfolds it, the elegant rag paper substantial against his fingers. It's only a few pages, the first one a letter requesting Draco's presence at his earliest convenience to discuss the practicalities of his father's estate. The other two sheets are neat facsimiles of ledger pages, ones Draco recognises from his father's accounts. They're not detailed, but it's enough to sketch out the net worth of the Malfoy fortune. 

It's higher than Draco expects. Not by much, but Draco remembers the empty spaces along the Manor walls, missing paintings and sculptures, bits and pieces of his family history sold off supposedly to pay Ministry reparations. He frowns down at the papers. The date on the ledger pages is recent. Just before his father had been brought in by the Unspeakables--by Draco himself. Just before Burke's firm had refused to take on his father's case, forcing Draco to turn to Achilleus Avery, and how Draco wishes he hadn't ever done that. It's his fault the solicitor's dead; Draco wants to go back in time, to tell Millie not to introduce them. It wouldn't change anything, though. Draco knows that. What's meant to be will be.

He frowns down at the ledger pages.

Something doesn't feel right. It pings every instinct Draco has as an Auror--an Unspeakable now, he reminds himself. He's not certain what to do with it though. Draco runs a fingertip across the letter, over the inky black spikes of Burke's handwriting, stark against the white paper, and then he sighs. Perhaps he's just too unsettled, he thinks. It's not as if Draco hasn't been expecting this letter. But it feels so final now, one last reminder of his father's death, of that gaping hole in Draco's psyche where his father had once stood. It'll be there forever, he knows, a wide Lucius-shaped emptiness that no one will be able to fill. Perhaps the edges will soften with time. He hopes they might; he feels as if he's being sliced open, blood seeping from his heart every time his mind goes close to that particular void. 

Draco folds the letter and the ledger pages, sliding them back into the envelope. He ought to talk to Harry about it, he thinks. Not yet though. Today's not about Draco and his ridiculous grief. 

He stands, slides the envelope into the waistband of his running shorts, then glances at the clock. It's nearly half-six, and he'd meant to be back to wake Harry up soon. Draco thinks about running to Grimmauld, but he's feeling tired and oddly bleak. 

So he looks around his flat, wanders through the rooms, pulls a few more outfits from the wardrobe, more pants from the drawers. It doesn't feel like home any longer, Draco realises, even if it's filled with things that belong to him, things that Draco loves. That's not something Draco wants to think about too closely; he lets what it might mean flit around the edges of his understanding before he pushes it all away and pads into the loo, pulling a few pots and phials from his stash of skincare products. Friday night Blaise had been more than a bit of an arsehole about the spot or two Draco's developed, and now Draco's bloody self-conscious. Harry'd just laughed at him and told him he could barely even see them, but every time Draco'd looked in the mirror this weekend he'd seen the pink splotches on his nose and cheek. He hadn't dared to hex them away; he's seen firsthand how badly that could go. Greg had tried it once in fourth year and his whole face had broken out in response. The last thing Draco wants is spots galore. 

His trainers are still on the chimneypiece. Draco picks them up, sets them in the top of the small shopping bag he's filled with clothes and toiletries. He looks back at his flat, almost wistfully, and then casts a Nox. The rooms fill with shadows again, sunlight only just beginning to filter through the curtains. 

"I'll be back soon," he murmurs, but it's more to placate his flat than anything. Draco doesn't entirely want to come back; he wants to stay in the comfort and solace of Grimmauld Place. He knows he can't, though. Not forever. Harry'll tire of him soon enough, will want the solitude of his own space back. Draco can't blame him. He's never been able to live with people for long. He'd lasted a few years with Pansy, but that'd been by sheer force of will on both their parts. Slytherins do better on their own, Draco thinks. It's far too easy for them all to be at each other's throats. Hogwarts had taught all of them that, at least. 

Draco steps into the burst of green flame in his flat, then out of it in the library of Grimmauld Place. He's almost at the staircase when he hears a clatter from the kitchen below; instead of heading up for Harry and their bed, Draco takes the steps down, walking into the brightly lit kitchen to find Harry at the hob, a pair of joggers hanging low on his hips, his chest and feet bare, his hair a snarled, tangled mess. 

"You're supposed to be in bed," Draco says, setting his bag on the kitchen table, as Harry turns, smiling at him. "I told Kreacher specifically--"

"Kreacher tried." Harry turns back to the sizzling pan, flipping the omelette in it with a deft hand. "But I couldn't sleep after you slipped out."

Draco slides the letter from Burke out of his running shorts, tucks it into the side of the bag. He'll deal with it later. Tomorrow perhaps. "Sorry. I wanted a bit of a run." He pulls out one of the chairs and sits, toeing off his trainers.

"I figured." Harry walks over to the fridge, opens it up, peering into it. "Was it good?"

"Well enough." Draco pulls a foot up to the chair seat, rubs his fingers beneath the edge of his sock. "I think I'm getting a blister." He'll have to use a different cushioning charm next time, he thinks. "Not enough running lately." 

Harry has a carton of apple juice in his hand. He holds it up, and Draco shakes his head. He can't stomach the thought of it right now. Harry pulls a glass from the cupboard and pours himself some juice, then sets the glass and the carton down on the table. "Fancy a bit of omelette?"

"I ought to be cooking for you," Draco says. "It's your birthday, after all." He catches Harry's hand, pulls him closer, between Draco's thighs. "Happy birthday, by the way," Draco murmurs, and he tugs Harry down into a slow, easy kiss. 

The hob pops and hisses behind Harry, and he pulls back, his face regretful. "Eggs," Harry says. "Want some?"

"A bit," Draco says. "I'm not famished."

"You just ran." Harry's already back at the hob, cutting the omelette and putting it on two plates. He stops the heating charm, then carries the plates over to the table, setting one down in front of Draco before he sits in the chair next to him. "You need to eat."

It's an argument they've been having all weekend. Draco knows he should want food, but he doesn't. He's not hungry, and he doesn't see the point in it. Still, Harry's giving him an even, steady look, and Draco knows he has to at least try. 

The omelette's good. Fluffy and buttery and with just the right amount of cheese folded into it. Harry gets up after a moment to plunge the French press and pour two cups of coffee, handing Draco one. "What're your plans for the day?" Harry asks, sitting again.

Draco swallows a forkful of egg. "The usual, I suppose. Training with Muriel until she decides it's best not to melt my brain into a pulp." He looks up at Harry. "You?"

Harry doesn't answer at first, then he sets his coffee cup down. "Trying to find your sodding uncle." He shrugs, but his gaze is sharp as it slides over Draco. 

"Good luck with that," Draco says, and he knows his tone's a bit bitter. He thinks about telling Harry about the letter from Burke, but something stops him. He's not certain what. He knows they'll be asking for his father's financials soon. If they haven't already. But Draco's loath to bring it up here, in their kitchen with the sunlight shining through the high windows, the hob only just settling down. 

Harry just scoops up a bite of omelette. Draco's no bloody idea how he manages to get it into his mouth; Harry's table manners sometimes are appalling, at least when it's just between the two of them. Draco won't admit it, but he finds that fact terribly charming, that Harry feels comfortable enough with him now to let his guard down. He doesn't know if he could return the favour. 

"We're having dinner here tonight," Draco says, and Harry looks up at him, eyebrow raised. Draco picks up his coffee. "Don't argue, but I've invited a few people over for your birthday." He'd meant to keep it a surprise, but he also knows Harry's not fond of those. Better to lay it out than have Harry throw a strop in front of everyone. 

"I don't like parties," Harry says, and Draco tuts at him. 

"It's not a party." Draco takes a sip of the coffee. It's nearly undrinkable; Harry brews it far too strong for Draco's liking. He grimaces, then sets the cup down again. "It's a dinner, and if you want your birthday present from me, you'll suffer through it politely."

Harry's mouth twitches. "So it's more for you then, is it?"

Draco looks up at Harry. "It's for us," he says, his voice quiet. "Together." 

"Oh." Harry just watches him, and Draco thinks he understands, thinks Harry can see why this might be important to Draco, this public declaration of his place in Harry's life. Even if their friends already know. Draco needs to stake his claim, to mark Harry as his. Harry reaches over and takes Draco's hand in his. His fingers are warm and thick as they curl around Draco's. "Thanks," he murmurs, and he doesn't look away from Draco. 

And Draco relaxes. He hadn't been certain if Harry would protest, or how loudly. Granger had warned him when he'd sent the invitation on Saturday that Harry wasn't fond of these sorts of get-togethers, but Draco'd told her this was different. That Harry would understand. 

Draco thinks he does. 

Harry gives him a small, quick smile. "I do," he says, and Draco realises he's been projecting again. His face warms; he'd thought he'd been getting better.

"Sorry," Draco says, and Harry shrugs. 

"It wasn't much this time," Harry says, and he finishes off his omelette, scraping the tines of his fork across his plate. He looks at Draco sideways. "I don't mind, you know. I like hearing your thoughts sometimes." His smile quirks a bit to one side, grows a tad more cheeky. "Especially certain ones."

Draco's cheeks burn hotter. "Well, it's rude of me." He looks down at his half-empty plate. He doesn't know how much more he can eat. He sets his fork down, pushes his plate away, pretends he doesn't notice Harry watching. "I have a meeting with Croaker this morning."

Harry glances over at him. "What about?" He stands up, carries his plate over to the sink and rinses it off. 

"Training, I suppose." Draco twists in his seat, arm over the back. "Muriel says he's interested in his investment."

"Unsurprising." Harry nods at Draco's plate. "You done with that?"

Draco hands the remnants of his omelette over. "It's strange. I've never been seen as a commodity before."

"You're a Legilimens now." Harry scrapes the scraps into the bin. "You've a skill that's one, rare, and two, in high demand in certain quarters."

"The Department of Mysteries," Draco says with a sigh. "At least they're paying me well." Not that Draco's seen a pay packet yet. Unlike Aurors, Unspeakables are paid on a monthly basis. Draco's not certain he likes that; he'd been fond of having money thrown into his Gringotts account every fortnight. Which reminds him. "Have you filed the paperwork for our per diem in New York yet?" Draco's still not certain how his erasure from Seven-Four-Alpha's going to fuck him over financially, particularly with this last bit of pay. No one's bothered to tell him anything about that, even when he's asked, and it's Draco's experience that if the Ministry can cock something up, it will.

Harry laughs and rinses Draco's plate, setting it down on top of his in the sink. "I have." He dries his hands on the tea towel hanging from one of the cupboard knobs, a ridiculously colourful one, splattered with faux paint droplets in primary colours, that Harry says he'd bought from the Tate Modern gift shop ages ago. Draco suspects he'd gone with Durant; Harry's not the type to indulge himself in modern art without some other reason such as the possibility of sex afterwards, but that's not the sort of thing Draco wants to push Harry about. There are still things they're trying to be careful about, particularly when it comes to past relationships, things that are still kept a bit secret. 

"For me as well?" Draco asks, and he knows he sounds a bit sulky. 

"In a way." Harry turns, leans against the sink, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He only winces a little now; Draco'd made certain all weekend he was taking his potions, and Harry's arm seems a bit better now. The idiot. Draco'd been so bloody furious when he realised Harry'd been stupid enough to do exactly what Draco'd suspected, bollocksing up his arm by refusing to take his proper potions. 

"Have you taken your potions?" Draco demands, and when Harry rolls his eyes and nods, Draco scowls at him. "Forgive me for being a bit sceptical, you lying wanker. You know I'll check the phial when I go up for my shower." 

Harry's mouth twitches. "I took my potions." He holds up his hand before Draco can ask his next question. "Yes. All of them. And as for your per diem, Gawain's letting me fold it into mine with a bit of creative paperwork. I'll just have to transfer your amount into your Gringotts account when it comes in. All right?"

Draco huffs. "I suppose it'll have to be." It makes him feel a bit odd to think of his money going into Harry's account first. That feels oddly intimate in a way he hadn't quite expected. He looks away, rubs the back of his neck. His damp hair's dried some, and it feels slick and disgusting beneath his fingertips. "I should shower." He catches a whiff of himself and wrinkles his nose and pushes himself upright. "Sooner rather than later."

"I don't know," Harry says. "I like a bit of sweaty Draco." He reaches out, catches Draco's waist as he passes, pulling Draco up against him. "It's sexy."

"You're an idiot," Draco says, but he can't help his laugh when Harry wriggles his eyebrows at him. "Really, Potter. A sodding twat even." 

And then Harry's kissing him, and it's soft and warm and tingling, and Draco slides his arms around Harry's neck, lets Harry turn him, press his back against the edge of the counter. 

"It's still early," Harry murmurs against Draco's lips. "And you haven't showered yet." His hands slide down Draco's sides, thumbs hooking in the waistband of Draco's running shorts. 

Draco thinks he should protest, should point out that they'll be late to work, but Harry's mouthing at his neck, and Draco's prick is already responding, swelling, pressing up against Harry's. "I hate you," he says, a bit breathlessly, and they both know that's a lie, particularly when Harry's hips push forward, trapping Draco against the counter. Draco turns his head, captures Harry's mouth with his in a rough, quick kiss that ends with Draco's teeth dragging across Harry's bottom lip. "Make it quick," Draco says, and his hands tangle in Harry's already snarled hair, his forearms resting on the broad width of Harry's warm shoulders. "And if I walk into Croaker's office with a visible love bite, I'll hex you, birthday or not."

"A challenge, I see," Harry says with a laugh. He works his hands into Draco's shorts, then past the waistband of Draco's y-fronts, fingers smoothing across Draco's arse. "I rather like those, you know." In one smooth motion Harry shoves Draco's shorts and pants down to his knees, freeing Draco's hardening prick.

"Arse." Draco's breath catches as Harry lifts him, almost effortlessly, dropping him onto the counter. "What are you--"

Harry jerks Draco's shorts and y-fronts off, tossing them both to the floor. "Birthday present," Harry says a bit breathily, looking down at Draco's ruddy prick. "All for me."

"Oh," Draco says, the word catching in the back of his throat as Harry leans down, shoulders flexed and swallows Draco's cock in one eager, quick slurp. Draco's head falls backwards, bangs against the cupboards as Harry pushes Draco's knees wider, settles himself between Draco's thighs. "That's--" Draco groans when Harry's hand cups his bollocks, squeezing lightly. "Fucking brill."

And Draco gives in, his hands sliding through Harry's hair, pushing Harry's head down, his eyes closing, his chest heaving.

Happy bloody birthday to them both, Draco thinks, and he breathes in sharply, spreads his thighs wider as pleasure prickles through him, sparks across his skin.

Circe but Draco loves this Gryffindor fool.

***

Blaise has the worst goddamned hangover he's had in months. Or weeks, perhaps, if he's honest with himself. Mainly because he's run out of fucking hangover potion, and he'd spent the whole of yesterday going through the largest bottle of Ogden's he'd been able to find in his pantry. Saturday he'd polished off the wine. And on Friday, he'd been out with Pans and Draco, so really he's been pissed in some form or another all sodding weekend, which might not have been the best life choice he could have made, but he's twenty-six for fuck's sake, and Blaise thinks he's entitled to a few bad decisions when it comes to alcohol consumption.

He rubs at his forehead. He's kept his sunglasses on, even in the middle of the Ministry Atrium. At least for now. At least until he can make his way to Pansy's lab to see if she has a potion or two he can take. He'll even submit himself to her Sobering Charm if he must. 

A whiff of a sausage roll from Greggs wafts by as a witch passes him, hurrying towards the lifts. Blaise's stomach lurches, and he stops, willing himself not to sick up into the Fountain of Magical Brethren. He sits on the edge of the circular pool, near the statue of the house elf, listening to the water splash behind him, cool and wet and soothing. 

It's a mistake, he realises, when he catches sight of a tall, lean, familiar figure striding from bank of Floos, a brown leather satchel slung over his shoulder. 

"Fuck," Blaise murmurs, and he tries to turn away, tries to hide himself behind the hindquarters of the centaur statue, but it doesn't work. Jake slows, hesitates as he draws up alongside Blaise. 

Blaise stills, but doesn't look over. He won't give Jake the satisfaction, he thinks, his fingers tightening on the strap of his own satchel. This is not what he needs today. Fucking, bloody hell. 

"Hey," Jake says, his voice low and uncertain. Blaise thinks about ignoring him, not even answering, but that'll make it look like he gives a damn that Jake's standing in front of him, like he cares that Jake hasn't bothered to contact him in almost a fortnight. He does, of course, but Blaise would rather bloody die before letting Jake know he's been drinking his bitterness away.

And so Blaise glances over at Jake, as calmly as he can, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, and Merlin, isn't he grateful for them right now? "I heard you were in town," Blaise says, keeping his voice cool.

"Yeah." Jake has the grace to look ashamed. Uneasy. He shifts on his feet, and Circe, Blaise thinks, why is he so damned attractive in his dark suit and his mint green tie and his stupid, rumpled blond curls that make him look like he just rolled out of bed? Which he probably had, and Blaise swears to God if he finds out anyone was there with Jake, he'll kill them both. Rip the skin off them, snap their heads from their bodies--something sharp and angry and vicious rises up in him, spreads its wings, spikes hot, furious flares of jealousy through him. 

Jake takes a step back, his eyes widening a bit. "You're angry."

"Whyever would I be?" Blaise can hear the cold rustle in his voice, the sound of a thousand Veela feathers ruffling in a frigid breeze, bright and gold and scaly. He can feel his mother's heritage twisting and coiling inside of him, in a way that's almost frightening. It's like nothing he's ever experienced, this wanting to lash out, to cause pain and destruction and agony, and he wonders now if the rumours about his mother are true, after all. 

Blaise looks away from Jake, tries to focus on the soft, steady slosh of water in the fountain. It settles the resentful roil in his belly, pulls back the creature inside. He breathes out, slow, even.

Jake moves closer, almost hesitantly, an odd expression on his face. Blaise fights the urge to strike him, but his shoulder blades prickle, tense. "I'm sorry," Jake says, his voice low. "I thought…" He trails off, and he stands still, just watching Blaise with those bright blue eyes of his that see too goddamned much. 

"Forget it," Blaise says, and his throat is tight and raw. He won't look at Jake. He can't, not even from behind his sunglasses. "It's fine. You've your life and I've mine, and it's _fine._ " 

"I don't think it is," Jake says, quietly. He sits on the edge of the fountain beside Blaise, and Blaise tenses. They're silent for a long moment. "I should have called," Jake says finally. 

Blaise just shrugs. "I don't give a fuck." But he does, and they both know it. When Jake looks over at him, Blaise thinks that between Draco and this blue-eyed bastard he really does need to learn Occlumency. "Don't," he says the moment he can feel Jake brush against his mind. At least he's more used to the feel of it now. He should thank Draco for that, he supposes.

"Sorry." Jake sighs, looks away. "I didn't think…" He breathes out in a soft huff, shaking his head. "Look, I assumed it was a one-time thing. You and me."

"Maybe it was." Blaise's shoulders are tight. He grips the edge of the fountain, leans forward. "I really don't want to talk about it, yeah?"

"Fair enough," Jake says, and then he adds, "I wanted to, you know." When Blaise glances over at him, Jake says, "Call you. I just thought…" He trails off. 

Blaise scowls at him. "What? That I'd let you fuck me for a whole weekend and then brush you off? When I specifically told you to look me up if you were in London?" He shakes his head. "Fuck you, Jake. Don't give me that rubbish. If you wanted to ring me up, you would have. End of bloody story."

"It's not--"

"Not what?" Blaise can feel that press of anger again, sharp and too bright. He tries to push it back down, tries to ignore it, but it seeps into his voice anyway, cold and steel-edged. "Because the way I see it, either you're a fucking goddamned coward or I'm not that important in your life." He shrugs. "Either way, I don't give a damn any longer." 

Tension stretches and crackles between them, angry and fraught, and Blaise wonders for a moment why he even thought there could be something between him and Jake Durant. He feels ill, his stomach twisting again, and he looks away as Jake rubs his wide palm across the angle of his jaw. 

"Everything all right, Zabini?" The guv's there, and Blaise doesn't know how. Potter's alone; when Blaise looks around he doesn't see Draco at all, just the guv in front of them, in his charcoal suit and red tie, his smile fixed and too polite as he glances between them, a bit awkwardly. "Hi, Jake," Potter says after a moment, and Blaise feels a flutter of that viciousness at the guv's familiarity. 

"Harry." Jake looks over at the guv. He's silent for a heartbeat, and then he says, "I guess I should wish you a happy birthday."

And oh, that burns hot and sharp in Blaise's chest, and he wants to reach for his wand, wants to hex them both, flay their skin--

"Zabini," Potter says, and Blaise blinks up at him, only just realising that his fingers are digging into the edge of the fountain again, and bits of the stone are starting to crumble beneath them. Blaise unclenches his hands. They hurt, and he can't quite straighten them for a moment. He stares down at them, thinks he sees the hint of talons in the way his fingers are curved, but that'd be madness, wouldn't it? 

Potter's watching him thoughtfully, and then Jake's standing, and Blaise thinks there's a faint tremble in Jake's hands as he pushes himself up. "I should go," Jake says. "I've got a meeting." He glances over at Blaise. His face is inscrutable. "Maybe we could talk soon."

"Maybe," Blaise says, and his voice sounds old. Rough. Tired. He swallows, flattens his palms against his thighs. They're fingers again, long and flexible, and Blaise doesn't really understand what's happening to him. 

But he's so very aware of Jake as he walks away. He turns his head, watches, incapable of stopping himself even with the guv standing beside him. Jake doesn't look back, doesn't pause as he strides across the Atrium, his dark blond hair shining in the light that filters through the glass dome, so high above them. Blaise's whole body feels as if it's on high alert, tingling and shivering, and it's all he can do to keep his prick from swelling when his gaze drops down to Jake's arse and the way it moves beneath the swing of his jacket. 

"Interesting," Potter says after a moment, and Blaise forces himself to pull his gaze away from the doorway Jake's just disappeared through. He looks up at the guv, and Potter's looking down at Blaise, his face curious. "This isn't just you fancying a shag, is it?"

Blaise unfolds himself, manages to stand. His whole body hurts, feels as if it's pulling and pushing against itself. "I've no idea what you mean," he says, but when he glances back at where he was sitting, there are two small grooves in the stone lip of the fountain, each of them looking as if something sharp and hard had been dragged through them. 

Potter raises an eyebrow. "All right," he says, a bit too agreeably for Blaise's liking. He trails Blaise to the queue waiting for the lifts. They stand silently, stiffly for a moment, two men who'd once shagged Jake bloody Durant, Blaise thinks, and he feels that sharp twist again, that urge to launch himself at the guv, to fight him down, to drag his fingers across Potter's thick throat, see the blood well up--

Blaise catches himself. Breathes out. Blinks slowly. When he turns his head, the guv's just looking at him. Blaise's stomach drops. He doesn't want the guv to know, to have seen those thoughts. "I'm fine," he says, and Potter's mouth quirks up at one side. 

"I didn't ask," Potter points out, and Blaise feels his face warm. He looks away. 

"Sorry." Blaise doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't like the way his body hurts, the urge he has to follow Jake down into the Department of Mysteries. To argue with him. To push him up against the wall and press himself against Jake, to feel Jake's warmth and solidness, to pull him into a rough, angry kiss. 

The guv just shrugs. "He's not mine anymore," he says after a moment, his voice low. He eyes the two men in front of them in the queue. "So whatever's in you that's making you jealous...well." Potter looks over at Blaise. "There's nothing between me and Jake."

Blaise isn't so certain about that. Lovers leave a mark, he's learnt. Whether or not you know it, there's still a part of them burnt into your psyche. The guv might think there's nothing there, but those memories can still be activated, can still be messy and complicated. 

Maybe it takes a Slytherin to recognise that, Blaise thinks. 

But he realises Potter means well. Realises that Potter's arse over tit for Draco, not Jake. So Blaise nods, and murmurs, "I know," his face feeling hot and prickly. 

Potter glances at him, a unsettled expression on his face. "Do you really?" Potter asks, almost beneath his breath. "Because sometimes I wonder."

Blaise doesn't look his way. He can't. He feels too raw, too exposed. He straightens his suit jacket, pulls at his cuffs. At least his headache's gone away.

The queue moves forward, and Blaise just breathes out. 

Whatever this is, it'll go away. 

It bloody well has to, Blaise thinks.

***

Jake's hands are shaking as he presses his palm on the back entrance to the Department of Mysteries. He waits a moment for the ward to read his biometrics and magical signature before the door clicks open. He steps through, into the familiar corridors. He knows this floor of the Ministry almost as well as he knows his own department in MACUSA. He's spent a hell of a lot of time here over the years. Especially when he and Harry'd been dating.

This is the first birthday in two years he's not spending with Harry, sprawled across a hotel bed, Harry's naked body beneath his. 

Fuck but he'd rather be with Blaise tonight, Jake thinks, and he feels that warm shudder go through him again, the same as when he'd been sitting beside Blaise, the fountain splashing behind them, feeling the aftershocks of the emotions roiling through Blaise, almost overwhelming in their intensity. There'd been anger and jealousy and a heavy twist of lust that had put Jake on his back foot and, if he's honest, turned him the goddamn fuck on. 

He stops for a moment, leans against the wall. Jake feels breathless, his prick hard in his trousers, and he reaches down to shift himself, to will his cock into a soft submission. It doesn't work. His trousers are tented, the head of his prick pushing up against the zip, and Jake's just grateful he has a suit jacket on to at least hide some of his hard-on. 

Jake's never seen Blaise like that before. It's the Veela in him, Jake's certain. He'd seen a bit of it in Moira back in high school, that sharp, vicious edge that had made their fucking so goddamn great, and, really, there'd been a reason he'd spent a whole goddamn weekend inside Blaise Zabini's arse, hadn't there? Something about Blaise had kept him turned on, ready to roll Blaise over and fuck him whenever he asked. It's the same thing that's made Jake so uncertain about calling Blaise, about starting this up between them again. 

Goddamn, Jake's fucking terrified. He wants to lose himself in Blaise, wants to bury his dick inside of him, fuck him until they're both sweaty and aching, waves of pleasure pushing them forward. Jake wants those three weeks from high school again, those nights when he'd wanted nothing but Moira, but this time he wants Blaise spread beneath him instead, wants to feel the hard ridge of Blaise's prick rubbing against his belly as he pounds into Blaise, hearing those soft, ragged gasps and groans coming from the back of Blaise's throat, seeing that long, brown neck arched for Jake, begging to be bitten, sucked, licked---

Jake swears, his whole body trembling. He presses his palm against his aching dick. It'd only take a moment, he knows, for him to get off, to come right here in this hallway, staining his trousers, spilling over his hand. He wants to. He wants to jerk himself off to thoughts of Blaise, then show him that memory, let him know how very goddamn much Jake wants him, wants to push those long legs wide and sink into that plush arse of his. Jake's breathing hard now, and his fingers find the outline of his cock through the thin wool of his trousers. The hall's empty. Silent. 

It'd be so easy, Jake thinks. Blaise has no fucking idea how the slightest look from him can get Jake hard now, no idea that Jake wakes up in the middle of the night, his sheets wet with spunk, Blaise's name on his lips. It's worse now that he's in London again. Now that he's closer to Blaise, inside Blaise's sphere, so to speak. Jake's obsessed with Blaise, and that fucking scares him because Jake's done this before, he's fallen for a Veela and watched her leave him behind when the right person came along, and that had taken Jake years to get over. 

He doesn't know what it'd be like if he let himself fall for Blaise.

Jake leans his head against the wall. Fuck. Just _fuck._ He lets his hand fall away from his cock, presses both palms against the wooden panelling behind him. He breathes out slowly, then back in again, over and over and over until he feels calmer, until his body starts to settle. 

Better, he thinks. Whatever this is between him and Blaise, he'll deal with it later. He has work to do this morning, and he can't let himself be distracted. Not like this, at least. 

A shiver goes through him again at the thought of Blaise's mouth against his. "Get your shit together, you asshole," Jake murmurs to himself, and he pushes himself off the wall, taking one step, then another down the hallway. 

Goddamn, he's losing his mind, Jake thinks as he turns the corner, and that fucking worries him, if he's honest. There's a good likelihood that Tom Graves will have Jake's bloody badge if he screws this up. That's one thing Graves had made fucking clear to Jake before he'd Portkeyed over on Friday. Jake glances down at his watch. And somehow he has to find a safe place this afternoon to call in to MACUSA and give the Director of Magical Security an update on what he's learned so far about what's going on with the Brits. Which is goddamn zilch right now, Jake thinks with a frown. That's going to piss Graves off for sure.

"There you are, Durant. In here." 

Jake glances over; Muriel Burke's in the doorway of an open office, beckoning to him. There's a small table beyond her with a few uncomfortable-looking, ancient chairs set around it. It looks like a conference room, but, being the fucking British Ministry, there aren't any windows, of course. Not like the ones they have at home in the Woolworth Building, tall and airy, even the offices like his unlucky enough to be along the building's long sides, set deep within the Manhattan canyons. To be honest, Jake finds the Department of Mysteries a bit uncanny, tucked away in the Ministry's depths, all black marble and slick tile and dark panelled walls, cold and silent and shrouded in shadows. The only thing close to it Jake's ever seen are the hidden offices of the Wizarding Secret Service near the President's House in New York, and he's only been in the reception area there. Even Luxembourg had been bright and modern, flooded with sunlight. Trust the Brits to think it perfectly fine to have a dark, airless, claustrophobic space to work in, Jake thinks, perhaps a bit uncharitably. 

With a sigh, Jake walks into the conference room, trying to gather his thoughts. 

Muriel shoots Jake a wry look as he closes the door behind him. "Should I ask why the glower, my boy?"

Jake shakes his head, hoping he's been able to tuck the more pornographic images away. He's still half-hard, his body yearning to go after Blaise, and he tries to take another breath to settle himself before he folds himself into a chair. "Not much to say, really. It's not a happy tale, all things considered. I wouldn't want to waste your time." 

Or give her anything to use against him, he wants to add, but Jake's smart enough to keep his tongue. He likes Muriel, quite a lot, if he's honest, but she's sharp and quick, and Jake knows from office gossip that she has no compunction about putting people over the proverbial barrel if it suits her needs. 

"Good," Muriel says, sitting down opposite him and cupping a half-full tea mug emblazoned with corgis between her hands. A grey-cloth diary sits open at her elbow, a rather lovely eagle owl quill set across this week's spread, filled with scrawled notes. A well filled with dark green ink sits next to them both, the top hanging half-off. Muriel takes a sip of her milky tea and studies him. "I'm rather terrible at playing the agony aunt."

Jake raises an eyebrow. "As I recall, your advice was always sound." That much is true, for the most part. She's never given Jake anything that's misled him. To the best of his knowledge at least, but there's always a first time for everything, isn't there?

Muriel rolls her eyes slightly, enough to make Jake smile. "And you always were a flatterer." But her mouth quirks up on one side. 

"Are we expecting Malfoy at this meeting?" To be honest, Jake hadn't expected to run into Harry in the Atrium, and he hopes Malfoy's not still sour with him about Blaise. Or Harry. Or whatever else has crawled up his shorts since Seven-Four-Alpha left New York. Hell, so much has happened in the past weeks, Jake's not sure he can muster the energy to be angry about any of it himself. Water under the bridge and then some.

Muriel glances over, her smile slipping, replaced by a frown that scores her hard-lined face. "No. I've left the poor sod with Saul for the nonce, and I'll need to rescue him soon. Hopefully before that perfidious blowhard of a department head ruins him for life." She sighs. "But first, we talk, you and me, boy."

Jake leans back in the chair, trying to get comfortable and failing. He stretches his long legs under the table. "I'm all yours."

"Hardly," Muriel fires back. "And even if you were, I'd doubt I could find time in your busy schedule, Jake Durant." She sets her tea mug down, folds her arms across the table, a sharp gleam in her eye. "You're a right bit of a Casanova, aren't you?"

This surprises Jake, and he has to stop himself from flinching at the steel in her tone. They'd shared a pint at the Leaky on Friday, and it'd been amicable. Or at least Jake had thought so. He sits up with a frown, taking a moment before answering. "What's this about?"

"I just had a chat with Saul about your love life." Muriel studies him, her fingers tapping lightly against the tabletop. "Vis-à-vis Malfoy, specifically."

Jake's sure his eyebrows are going to jump his hairline, he's raised them so high. "First of all, Malfoy doesn't figure into my love life, thanks. Secondly, what the actual hell, Muriel? Saul Croaker cares about who I fuck?"

Muriel wrinkles her nose and leans back in her chair. "Enough to speak to me rather frankly this morning before Malfoy came in about the ethics of you supervising the sprog."

"The sprog," Jake echoes. 

"Malfoy, of course." Muriel looks annoyed. "You _are_ a Legilimens, Jake. Keep up for Circe's sake. Everyone in this bloody department knows you were shagging Harry Potter two months back. And now we've Malfoy the Younger down here with all record of his time under Potter as his SIO being erased--"

"What?" Jake stares at her. "That can't be done." Well, it can. But it's not very frequent. 

Muriel just watches him. "The sprog's in bed with Potter now, isn't he? Saul didn't say outright, but he wasn't really beating around the bush either, and I'm not an idiot. Not to mention I've had a few glimpses in his training. Nothing I wanted to linger on, mind." She looks a bit uncomfortable. "It was enough, though."

Jake doesn't know what to say, so he shrugs and glances away. 

"Then Saul's right." Muriel sighs. "Well. When I realised you were here, I thought perhaps you might be willing to take him back on, but I think that's a shit idea now. And do you know how fucking much it pains me to even admit Saul Croaker has a bloody point?" She slaps a hand against the table. "Bloody hell, Jacob." She sounds disgusted. 

It's Jake's turn to scowl. "Right. Well, please feel free to tell Saul that I'm sorry I helped identify a Legilimency talent that had escaped the Ministry. I'll try harder to leave any resources undiscovered next time." He stops, then says, half-to himself. "Focus on my love life, maybe." Like that will help.

Muriel just sighs again and slumps back in her chair, running her hand over her face, pushing her hair back off her forehead. "I trained his aunt, you know. Malfoy's. She was extraordinary." She looks over at Jake. "Bellatrix, not Andromeda. Lovely girl, Andy was, but a bit boring. At least until she grew a backbone and ran off with that Muggleborn."

"Bellatrix?" Jake sits up, leans forward. "The one who was in bed with Voldemort? She was with the Department of Mysteries?" He can't help himself--it's so unusual to hear Brits volunteer something new about either of their Wizarding Wars. It's as if they want to forget they happened, he thinks. Sweep it under the rug, pretend everything's still fine. 

"Yes." Muriel looks over his shoulder, her eyes focusing on something Jake can't see. "Bellatrix came to us right out of Hogwarts. I worked with her before she went to Tirésias for her coursework, helped her get ready." She picks up her mug, takes a sip, cupping it between her palms. She's silent a moment, then she says, "Bella was very powerful, I have to admit."

"What happened?" Jake's never heard this much before. He'd known about the Occlumency practice, but didn't know that Malfoy's aunt had been at Tirésias. It explains a lot, if he's honest; raw, natural talent for Legilimency tends to run in families, although there's always the odd outcropping no one can explain. "How'd she go from here to Voldemort's Girl Friday?"

"I'm not entirely sure." Muriel's gaze settles on Jake. "I do know she fell in love with Lestrange in Paris. Met him through another family connection. A Rosier, I believe. A cousin, perhaps?" Muriel shakes her head. "Over the years the details get a bit fuzzy, my boy. But even at eighteen Bella was a headstrong girl, willful and unpredictable and always a bit detached, but not the way she was later. Something must've ruined her. Broke her a bit. She never finished her course."

"Perhaps that's a good thing, given what happened after," Jake suggests. He's not quite sure what Muriel's angle is.

"Yes. Perhaps." Muriel straightens, sets her mug down. "Her father was furious, particularly when she turned back up with a wedding ring on her finger and Rodolphus Lestrange at her side." She runs a finger around the rim of her mug. "Her mind never was quite right after that." She looks up at Jake. "Mad as a hatter, that one."

"So I've heard."

Muriel's silent for a long moment, and Jake knows she's lost in old memories. He sits quietly, waiting for her to come back. She exhales, finally, and glances over at him. "In any case, I'm certain you know how strong Malfoy is from your own work with him."

Jake nods. "He punched through my defenses the first session I had with him." And that hadn't been awkward. Not in the least.

He knows Muriel's picked that thought up, the way he'd intended. Her smile is thin. "Mine as well," she says. "I think he's the strongest natural talent I've seen, and I didn't think I'd see anyone stronger after you." She looks a bit apologetic. "Sorry, boy, but with training, he'll put even you out to pasture." Her gaze catches his. "But you know that already, don't you?"

Jake feels a bit uncomfortable with this, even as he recognises the truth of Muriel's judgment. He wants to be furious with Malfoy, for taking Harry, for having unchartable levels of magical potential, for surpassing Jake himself at the one thing he prides himself on. But Jake finds himself feeling sorry for Malfoy instead, the poor bastard. "Does he know?"

Muriel shakes her head. "I've mentioned it, but he doesn't believe me. Probably a good thing. The sprog's arrogant enough as it is." She looks over at Jake. "But that much power? It's going to make it bloody hard for him to learn control, especially as he's already twenty-six."

"I started Tirésias at twenty-six," Jake says. "It's not impossible." But he knows what she means. Legilimency talent ought to be discovered in school, or right out of it. It's easier to find it early, to shape it while the mind's still malleable. 

"No, but you'd already worked professionally and had American field training." Muriel frowns. "Up until you, Malfoy's not had any development past his early Occlumency work with Bellatrix."

Jake thinks he sees a wave of sadness cross Muriel's face when she says the name of Draco's aunt, but he's not certain. "He's in good hands with you. I'm amazed you let Saul pull you back in to train him."

Muriel clicks her tongue, a soft, sad tut that disappears into the silence of the room. "There's no one in England left, Jake. I lost so many students to the wars, on both sides, really, and the ones who didn't die took lucrative contracts with the private security firms, the ones working in the offshore prisons." She looks at him. "You know the ones I mean." He does. All too well. Muriel shakes her head. "And the unlucky ones ended up on the Thickey Ward with permanent neurological damage." 

They're both quiet for a moment; they know the dangers of Legilimency. The neurological overload is one of the reasons natural Legilimens are so valued; something about their abilities helps to shield them from the magic overwhelming their mental faculties. Jake wonders about Malfoy's aunt, what could have happened to her, then, to twist her mind the way it obviously had. 

Finally Muriel sighs and leans forward, her elbows on the table. "We're building up from the ashes here."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall back to his thigh. "If it's any consolation, I don't think Graves feels much different. We're desperately short on trained Legilimens at MACUSA. They all get shunted into Special Ops." He doesn't want to think about that long term toll on his fellow Legilimens, the stories that crop up about those who want leave but can't, and then collapse under the strain of their work.

"We can train them," Muriel says, "but a true, natural Legilimens such as you or Malfoy?" She shakes her head. "The likelihood is so much lower that they'll suffer harm. That's why I was so perplexed with Bellatrix, but no one could tell me why she'd changed. I want to make very, very certain nothing similar happens to the sprog."

A rap of knuckles comes at the door. Jake shifts, surprised, looking over his shoulder, but Muriel doesn't seem at all perturbed by the visitors. He supposes it's Malfoy and Croaker.

"Come in," she calls.

Hassan Shah smiles as the door opens, and he makes his way over to clasp Jake's hand. "Durant, so glad you've come."

The tap of Barachiel Dee's cane draws Jake's attention. "Legilimens," he says, his voice raspy and deep. "And Ms Burke, of course."

Muriel has an imperturbable calm to her demeanour as she swivels slightly to acknowledge him. "Mr Dee. How lovely to see you again." Her voice is calm, perfectly pitched, as if she were greeting a neighbour. Jake envies his senior colleague her composure--most people are wary around the legendary necromancer, unsettled even, but not Muriel Burke. If Jake didn't already respect her highly, this alone would raise her in his estimation.

Jake and Muriel shift their chairs further down to let Barachiel Dee and Shah sit. Dee grunts softly as he takes his chair; Shah steadies him on one side, Jake on the other, and Dee frowns, obviously unhappy at being seen with a weakness. 

"So," Muriel says after a moment. "Azkaban." She looks over at Jake. "You were to be the Legilimens on record, but Saul wants the sprog to be part of the team. Or so he's telling him at the moment. Merlin knows how that will go."

Dee snorts, but there's a small smile playing around his mouth. "My grandson's friend is volatile, I've heard."

"Spend five minutes with him," Muriel says. "That comes through loud and bloody clear. But Malfoy's a good lad and a strong Legilimens already. Saul wants him to have this experience, given our current shortage of Legilimency practitioners at the moment." She looks around the table. "Are there any objections?"

"Malfoy's sound," Shah says, scratching the side of his nose. "I reckon he'll be brill, so none from me, yeah?"

Dee only shrugs. "The more Legilimens the better, one would hope. Although I worry about his inexperience."

"As would I," Jake says, and he realises this is what Muriel means about his supervision of Malfoy. "But Muriel's planning on being there, aren't you?" He watches her, takes in her small, wry smile. 

"You have it in one, Jacob." Muriel rubs at a green ink stain on her thumb. "Saul wants me to be the head of the team. It's the first sensible thing he's suggested in years, so I'd prefer you lot not argue with him in that regard. I've no interest in micromanaging anything you're up to. I just want to keep Malfoy safe, make sure his head doesn't explode."

Shah's looking at her with wide eyes. "Seriously? His head could just…." He moves his hands, mimicking an explosion. 

"Theoretically, yes," Muriel says, and Shah looks horrified. "But I'd prefer to keep that from being a possibility, hence my assignment."

Jake's pretty fucking sure it's more than that. Saul Croaker's no damn fool; he's not about to let an American, an Auror, and a fucking exiled necromancer bollocks Azkaban up for the Ministry. Not with Luxembourg looking over the Brits' shoulders. Muriel might be focusing on Malfoy's training, but she's been around the Department of Mysteries for decades. She knows what the fuck she's doing, and whatever ill will's built up between her and Croaker himself, Jake's willing to lay Dragots and Galleons on Croaker trusting her a hell of a lot more than he would the rest of them. 

Muriel's just looking at him calmly. "Jake?"

Jake sinks back in his chair, trying to look unfazed. "No skin off my teeth," he says. This is something to report to Graves, he thinks. Even if he's not entirely certain why. He glances over at Shah. "What's the situation there?"

"Bad," Shah says bluntly. "The containment unit's faltering--"

"Utterly broken," Dee says with a frown.

Shah rubs the back of his neck. "He's not half-wrong, yeah? It's keeping the Dementors at bay for now, but it's--"

"Nothing more than a stop-gap." Dee leans forward, and Shah shrugs. "They're unhappy, Legilimens. Wouldn't you be, trapped in a single room like that? You saw them. You know who they are. What they are."

In his mind, Jake can still see those poor damn souls; they haunt his dreams sometimes, those two sailors, one Spanish, one Norwegian, that bent, grey-haired witch who'd wanted nothing more than to share her life with her Muggle family. "What do you want to do?" he asks, and he's curious when Dee's gaze flicks towards Muriel, then back to Jake. 

"To make them comfortable," Dee says with a sly, quick smile. "Nothing more than that, Legilimens." 

And that's bullshit if Jake's ever seen it, he thinks. He watches Dee look at Muriel again, and there's something there, Jake thinks. Something Dee's hiding, and he's damn well not going to say anything in front of Muriel Burke. Not when she's Croaker's representative. Jake leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Yeah?" he asks, and he doesn't turn his gaze away from Dee. "Just comfortable."

Dee's smile widens. "I think you understand my concerns."

"The Wizengamot's threatening to have the lot of 'em removed," Shah says, and they turn to look at him. Shah's face is grim, unsettled. "Me, I say, they all need to give their heads a wobble, yeah? But Luxembourg's well narked at us, aren't they, and they're wanting us to fix it, and the Wizengamot's solution is to take 'em all away, and have done with 'em." He draws a finger across his throat. "Kill the whole lot, and that doesn't sit well with me." 

"Or me," Dee says with a sharp look at Jake. "Nor should it with you, Legilimens."

"No," Jake says, and his stomach flips unhappily. "It doesn't."

"What do you need us to do?" Muriel asks Shah. "How long do we have?"

Shah picks at the cuff of his jacket. "No clue. One of the Luxembourg solicitors is trying to stop it, yeah? On human rights grounds, but she doesn't know if she can."

Jake's shoulders feel tense and tight. He leans forward, his elbows on the thin metal arms of his chair. "There's some precedent, I think. International protections have been placed on centaurs using human rights legislation even though the centaurs themselves prefer to be classified as Beasts within the wizarding world."

"Same for merpeople," Muriel says. "It's tricky, but it's been done before."

Shah nods. "That's the idea, yeah. Merlin fucking knows if it'll work, but…"

"Maybe it can buy some time," Jake says. 

They're silent for a moment, then Dee says, "Or put off the inevitable." Jake looks over at him, and Dee adds, "In their eyes at least." His face is shuttered, his mouth tight. "Poor sodding arseholes." He shakes his head, his hands folded over the top of his cane. 

Shah crosses an ankle over his knee. "I can get you into Azkaban tomorrow," he says. "Luxembourg's there today. Acting like our bessies, aren't they, going around telling us what we've fucked up?" He rubs his thumb over the slick, polished leather of his boot. "But they're back here to London in the morning, so I reckon I could have you in by half-ten, if you wanted. All of you."

Muriel nods. "A walkthrough, at least." 

"Something like that." Shah exchanges a glance with Dee, who nods. 

"That can be arranged," Dee says, and once again, Jake gets the distinct feeling that there's something not being said here in front of Muriel. He doesn't know if he likes that fact, but he supposes he can't object. It's not as if he's being entirely honest with the Ministry himself, now is he?

He turns his head; Muriel's watching him, her face still, steady, thoughtful. She doesn't look away. 

"Tomorrow," Muriel says finally. "Hassan, make the arrangements. We'll meet you and Mr Dee at the site." She closes her diary, caps the inkwell. "I think we're done here, gentlemen. For today at least." When they start to stand, Muriel looks up at Jake and says, "Jake, wait."

Jake sinks back into his seat, nods to Shah and then Dee as they leave, the door closing behind them. He looks back over at Muriel. "What?"

Muriel fiddles with her quill. "I have to collect the sprog. Spend a bit more time mucking about in his head." She lets the quill fall onto the desk with a soft clatter. "But I wanted to make something clear to you." 

There's a shift in her voice that Jake doesn't particularly like. He tries to keep his cool, tries not to let her know he's picked up on it. "What would that be?"

"Don't you fucking go after him," Muriel says, her voice low. "He's under my care now, so if you think about--"

"I'm not going to," Jake says, cutting her off. 

Muriel doesn't look convinced. "Potter and Malfoy--"

"Yeah, I know." Jake leans forward. "And I don't care, Muriel." He doesn't. Not with Blaise out there, but that's a different thorny question filled with its own morass of professional ethical dilemmas that Jake's no goddamn interest in sharing with Muriel Burke at the moment. "I'm not going after Malfoy."

"All right." Muriel studies his face. "But if you did--" She cuts off his protest with a raised hand. "Just let me get my threat out, you arsehole." 

Jake sinks back in his chair, motions for her to continue. 

"Thank you," Muriel snaps. "Merlin's tits. Anyway. If you _did_ , I'd go after you as well. So we're clear. There's plenty of ammunition out there. I've read his file. You were the Legilimens of record for his sergeant's interview." 

"I didn't tank him there." Jake meets her gaze evenly. "And I didn't know what was going on at the time." Not until he'd goddamn seen Harry in Malfoy's head, at least, begging to be fucked.

Muriel shrugs. "Don't care. Who'll they believe? I've been in this job for decades, boy. You're just a little Yank upstart."

Jake grins at her. "That I am." He likes Muriel's forthrightness, if he's honest. "Besides," he says. "Malfoy needs someone to watch out for him." Someone who isn't Harry, Jake thinks. Because when that comes out, when their relationship becomes general knowledge, all goddamn hell's going to break loose. Jake's not even a Brit, and he can see that coming a fucking mile away.

Maybe more.

He looks over at Muriel. "Are we good now?"

She smiles. "Only if you get off your lazy arse and walk me down to Saul's office. Protect me from that sodding menace." 

Jake pushes himself out of his chair. "What the hell did he do to you that's put you off him so badly?"

"Love," Muriel says, standing, "you don't even want to know." 

But he does, Jake thinks, eyeing her. Muriel Burke's an enigma to everyone, and Jake's pretty damn certain she likes it that way. To be honest, he doesn't blame her. Not entirely. 

With a shake of his head, Jake follows her out of the office, letting the door swing shut behind them.

***

When Pansy looks up from her workbench at the faint knock on her door jamb, the last person she expects to see is her mother. For a moment, she's certain she must be hallucinating, and she frowns down at the tracking spell she's running on a scrap of fabric the Luxembourgian detail insists might be from Rodolphus Lestrange's Azkaban uniform. It's not the sort of thing to cause fumes or any secondary charm that might cause her to think Camilla Hirsch Parkinson in the doorway of her laboratory, Jonesey decidedly ill-at-ease beside her, his lab coat rumpled and his hair looking as if he's run both hands through it in distress.

"Hello, Pansy," her mother says, and Pansy just blinks at her. 

"She insisted on seeing you," Jonesey says, and the look he gives Camilla is distrustful at best. Pansy suspects he's suffered a bit of a measured tongue-lashing if he tried to deny her mother entrance.

"Mother," Pansy says, her gaze taking in Camilla's nearly tailored red dress, tight around her narrow waist, and her shiny black heels that perfectly match the small bag hanging from her bent elbow. Her short, dark curls are swept away from her face, and she looks impeccable as always. 

Pansy, on the other hand, has a tea stain on her lab coat, just above her left breast. She can tell by the flick of her mother's gaze that Camilla's already noticed it. It must be driving her mad not to point it out, but Jonesy's presence is making her mother hold her sharp tongue. For now.

"I'd like to take you to lunch," her mother says, and that surprises Pansy. Particularly when Camilla adds, "But only if you've time."

For a moment Pansy thinks about refusing. Her mother wants something, that much is clear, and when Camilla Parkinson wants something, Pansy's learnt to be uneasy. Still, she looks over at Jonesey, who just shrugs and says mildly, "I'll watch your charm for you if you'd like." He looks eager to get Pansy's mother out of the lab.

Pansy's certain she's going to regret this, but she shrugs and says, "All right." She slides off the stool and slip out of her lab coat, walking over to hang it up on one of the hooks in the corner. She grabs her bag from off the small table beneath, then glances over at her mother. "I'm assuming you're not interested in the commissary."

Camilla's nostrils flare. "Most decidedly not." She hesitates, then says, "I've booked us a table."

Jonesey's eyebrows go up. "How posh," he says, to Camilla's amused look. Pansy just glares at him. The idiot grins back at her, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Have fun," he says as she walks past.

"I'll be back," she says, and she follows her mother into the hall. The door's only just closed behind them when she says to Camilla, "I can't be gone all afternoon."

"Neither can I." The sharp tap of her mother's heels echoes along the hallway. "Your father's having friends for dinner, and the elves are going mad."

It's never just friends, though. Pansy knows that. Anyone her father invites to the Norfolk house that sets the kitchen elves into a tizzy is a business associate. Someone he wants to impress, to wine and dine in highest style with every pain taken and no expense spared. Pansy feels sorry for the elves. She'd hated those evenings as a child, especially if she'd had to be scrubbed within an inch of her life and bundled into her best frilly, fussy dress to socialise with the other families' brats. Her mother had kept a formal playroom on the second floor for Pansy to entertain important children in with Jinksy hovering nearby, her elven brow furrowed with worry. Pansy'd loathed the tidy decorum of the whole evening, with the toys and books she was never allowed touch otherwise lest they seem worn and torn for guests, the fakeness, the polite chit-chat and the underlying tension of having to be on her best behaviour for people she didn't know. Or want to know. But so much rested on good impressions, didn't it, and Pansy had been taught early on to keep her mouth shut and her eyes down. Hogwarts had been a fucking relief from all of that, a place where Pansy could be headstrong and angry and as cutting and cruel as she liked. All the things her parents would never let her be, not when she was on display. 

Pansy thinks, however, she might have gone to an extreme even then. She won't flagellate herself over it though. If she hadn't lashed out, hadn't had a sharp tongue and a bitter attitude those years, Pansy thinks she might have crumbled, might have lost herself to her parents' revision of her into the polite, quiet woman they expected her to be. 

Then again, Daisy'd been the one to bend her head and smile sweetly, and look where her sister had ended up. Running off with Dimitri bloody Godunov to Circe knows where whilst her husband looks set up to spend the next decade in Oudepoort. Not exactly the perfect scion of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Pansy thinks. Either of them. It must be the Hirsch coming out in them, and that thought actually cheers Pansy, if only a bit.

"Where are we lunching, then?" Pansy attempts a stab at politeness for her mother as they pass out of the hallways and into the lift. 

Camilla smiles over at her, her red lips curving, and it softens her face. Pansy's always a bit awestruck by her mother's beauty. If she had half the elegance Camilla Parkinson has in her smallest finger, Pansy'd be thrilled. "I rather like the Northall, and as I recall you do too."

"Oh, lovely." Pansy still dreams of the terrine of salmon she ate there once; she hasn't been to the Northall in years. Her mother doesn't come to London as often as she used to, and Pansy certainly doesn't splash out on power lunches. Not on her small pay packet.

Still, something in the back of Pansy's head tells her that her mother knows something, that she's trying to console her. Pansy's not quite certain what, exactly, but her mother hasn't taken such care of her since Tony and Eva's wedding was announced. And that turned out so well, Pansy thinks tartly.

They make small talk on the short walk down Whitehall to the Corinthia Hotel, trading comments on the weather, the heat, the small details of streets they pass through on their way to Trafalgar Square. Once inside the vaulted lobby, Pansy lets herself be led to a cozy table in the bustling restaurant. A sort of calm creeps over her, as she's seated across the heavy linen tablecloth from her mother. This is familiar. This is the rhythm of childhood, of family, of days out in London with her mother. She resists the urge to fiddle with her place setting, keeping her hands firmly in her lap and watching her posture.

After a spot of Prosecco--Pansy's decided if Jonesy's minding the spells, she can bloody well drink--her mother opens up a bit. Pansy's tucking into her smoked salmon and smashed avocado starter when Camilla says lightly, "I suppose you've heard from your sister."

Pansy's fork has just pierced the thick, creamy green of the avocado. She stops, sets the fork down, and reaches for her glass. "I might've done." She doesn't look at her mother. "Briefly."

Her mother's red-suited shoulders shrug. "I don't mind, dear. And you don't have to tell me what Daisy said." She looks up at Pansy, takes a sip from her own tall flute of bubbly wine. "Or didn't say. I know where she is. More or less." Her eyes are sharp as Pansy meets her gaze, and Pansy remembers just how much it takes to rattle Camilla Parkinson. She wonders how much her mother knows, if she has any clue what sort of trouble Daisy's about to get herself into. Her mother sets her wine glass back down. "But I want to make sure you're all right."

She wants nothing of the sort, Pansy's sure. "I'm fine." Pansy stabs at the avocado, breaking off a bit and shredding the salmon. She swallows it, the grassy creaminess welcome on her palate. She'd forgotten breakfast this morning, and, frankly, this is a bloody brilliant way to recover from a dull, mindless morning in the lab. Her gaze flicks back up to her mother's face. "Why shouldn't I be?"

The look her mother gives her is a bit too knowing. "I realise it's hard, Pansy. Sometimes they ask a lot of you, your father and your sister, just keeping their secrets." Her smile slips off her face; she looks down at her untouched plate, and Pansy thinks for once she's seeing her mother as she is, not as she'd like to present herself.

Pansy isn't hungry suddenly. "I'm not keeping secrets." She stops, the tines of her fork dragging through the smashed avocado. "How much do you know about what Daisy gave me?" She doesn't look around exactly, but she's been keeping a careful eye on the tables around them, to make sure no one's listening in. She's fairly certain her mother's cast a discreet Muffliato; the stools at the bar look a bit blurrier than when they'd sat down.

"I've no idea what you mean." Camilla falls quiet as the waiter returns, bringing their mains and then taking away the Prosecco flutes and bringing out the white wine they'd ordered for lunch. 

Pansy waits until he's well away from the table to turn back to her mother. "She told me to give it to Daddy."

"Give him what?" Camilla's face is impassive and wary. Pansy realises this isn't a put-on; her mother genuinely has no idea. "I assume it's business related?"

Pansy nods, in a way grateful that her mother actually doesn't know everything. "A scroll, heavily spelled. Daisy had me carry it back for her."

She doesn't need to mention that she didn't tell anyone about it or declare it, doesn't point out that she used an official Portkey to bring her sister and father's most certainly dodgy business correspondence back into the country, not to mention whatever else the spelled-shut parchment contained.

"What are you planning on doing with it?" Camilla fiddles with her sea bass, not really eating it. She is drinking wine, however; her glass is nearly empty already. She looks up at her daughter, a furrow between her brows. "I wouldn't keep it for too long, Pansy, unless you have another plan for it. You know how your father is."

Pansy does. Terry Parkinson's a good man in many ways, but he has a temper on him, particularly when he thinks someone's trying to fuck him over in business. Pansy's not entirely certain he'd stay calm with her, not if that damned scroll has anything important--or incriminating--in it.

She takes a bite of her own main--a lovely Dover sole with lemon that might almost restore her faith in humanity and British cooking. "I want to open it first. I'm fiddling with the protective spells, but I need to be careful." She glances up at her mother. "Daisy almost certainly put an anti-tampering charm on it."

It feels surreal to be having this conversation with her mother, Pansy thinks. They've never talked about any of this. Not really. She and her mother have always stayed in the shadows, never asking questions, never pushing too hard for answers about where the money comes. Pansy wonders now if that was foolish of them, if they'll both be dragged down by her father and her sister and whatever idiotic decisions the two of them have made.

Camilla raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Well." She twists her fork between her fingers. "If that happens, I'd blame it on Customs, if I were you."

"I was thinking of saying it got mixed up with evidence, but you're right. Customs is a possibility as well, even for an Auror arrival." Pansy takes a bite of fish, swallows. "You know they could be in trouble, Mother."

Her mother hesitates, then nods. "I'm aware. Hence my desire to speak with you today." She studies Pansy for a long moment, then says, "I never wanted you to be in this position, you know. Choosing between your job and your family. It's why I fought you over Auror training."

Pansy bites her lip, sets her fork down. She reaches for her wine glass and takes a sip. "Do you know what Daddy's doing?"

"No." Camilla tucks a curl behind her ear. "I've never wanted to. As far as I know it's not illegal--"

"Mother," Pansy says, and she gives Camilla an exasperated look. "Daddy lives on the edges of legality. You can't say you don't know that."

Her mother's silent for a moment, then she says, "I love your father, Pansy. Even when things have been difficult between us. Even when he's made choices and decisions that I thought put us at risk. That I disagreed with."

"The war," Pansy says quietly.

Camilla's mouth tightens. "My mother's family barely escaped a man like the Dark Lord," she says, and her voice is tight. Angry. "Your father knows how I felt about that. It's the only time I ever thought about leaving him, you know. Even with everything he's done. The business. The other women." She meets Pansy's gaze evenly.

"I didn't know you knew," Pansy murmurs. 

Her mother looks away. "I know more than I'd like," she says after a moment. "But I also know that I love your father, and for all his faults and vices, he loves me. We've worked through things. We've made a good life together." She glances back at Pansy. "We have two beautiful daughters. And that, Pansy, is the point I draw the line. Terry's involved Daisy now, and you, in a different way, and I'm furious with them both for drawing you into this." Her hand shakes as she reaches for her wine glass, lifts it to her mouth. "They're both bloody fucking idiots."

Camilla almost never swears. Pansy just watches her; her mother sighs and meets her gaze. "I'm not asking you to protect them," Camilla says after a moment.

"You know I will," Pansy says, taking another bite of fish, and her mother sighs. 

"I know." The small smile on Camilla's face is brief, replaced with a motherly look of concern. "Daisy was worried about you when I talked to her last. Before all…" Camilla frowns, then shakes her head. "This. She said you'd been with Tony again."

The fish tastes like ash in Pansy's mouth. She swallows drily around it, taking another swallow of wine. Perhaps she shouldn't try to eat at this luncheon, despite the impeccable food, but imitate her mother's form instead and drink her lunch. "He was in New York." Pansy stops for a moment, thinking about what to say next, weighing the likely impact of her words. "Did you know he was an Unspeakable? Because I bloody well didn't until he showed up in the MACUSA offices."

Camilla waves her wine glass, and Pansy relaxes. "Michal was terribly coy about what he was doing," her mother says, "and it wasn't too hard to put together." She looks up at Pansy, understanding suddenly dawning across her face. "Oh, love. Are you worried about your father? He's known about the investigation for ages."

This puts Pansy on the back foot. She tilts her head. "Daddy knew that Tony was investigating him?"

Her mother laughs. "Of course he did. It's not as if the Unspeakables are discreet. Frankly, he said better the devil you know than the devil you don't. And he was always careful." Her mother's face hardens a bit. "Until recently, it seems." 

And in these moments, Pansy can see her mother's resemblance to Saul Croaker, and she makes a mental note to ask her mother next time she's at home more about what exactly the Hirsch family did in previous generations. Pansy's heard a bit from her grandmother, but she's sure there are interesting tales out there that were censored for her ears.

"You honestly didn't know until New York?" Camilla's expression softens. "It's just we all assumed…" She trails off with a soft sigh. "Oh, Pansy, darling."

Pansy's humiliated. "I didn't know about Daisy and Godunov either."

The flick of her mother's eyes away is all Pansy needs for confirmation. Her mother's known everything all along. Pansy would curse if they weren't in the quiet respectability of the Northall. Her mother tears at a scrap of bread, rolling it up and setting it on the side of her plate. "I'd worried about it, of course, until Eustace betrayed us all."

"As much as I hate to defend him," Pansy says, "Euey didn't betray us, Mother. He made a deal with Dol-"

"Don't say that name at this table." Her mother's whisper is fierce, her eyes flashing.

Pansy nods meekly, feeling all of five years old again. It's amazing how quickly her mother can bring her to heel, even just with her voice. "All right."

"I'm sorry, for what it's worth." Camilla leans back, frowning. "I wanted to keep you entirely out of it, but then, well, you were sent over there so quickly I didn't have time to speak to you alone, and then you were back again." Her mother's frown deepens. "You didn't even visit your cousins whilst you were there."

"There wasn't time," Pansy protests. She's known she'd get in trouble for this when she came back, and she's far more ready for this particular argument. "MACUSA kept us busy."

Her mother gives her an incredulous look. "Really." One eyebrow goes up. "You have time to let Tony Goldstein shtup you, but you can't go up to Westchester to see your Aunt Mariska and Uncle Jerome. Your cousin Albert's wife just had twins."

Pansy's far too familiar with these particular knives of maternal guilt, and she twists to avoid them. "How lovely," she says, then adds, "which means I'm sure they're quite busy with their grandchildren, and not up for visitors."

The moment she says it, she feels the trap closing around her, and she knows there's no escape. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, buggering bloody fuck, she's usually so fucking careful about not giving Camilla this to use against her.

"And who knows how long _I'll_ have to wait for grandchildren." Her mother's eyes are sad. Pansy's struck by the emotion in them, and she tries not to let it affect her. "Unless you've done something stupid and haven't told me yet?"

"I'm sorry. Not expecting at the moment." Pansy's just finished her period, thank goodness. She doesn't need another pregnancy scare with Tony.

"Baruch Ha-Shem." Her mother's prayer is fervent, and Pansy tries not to roll her eyes. "I don't think I could stand sharing a baby with Michal. She'd try to turn my own grandchild against me, you know she would." Camila's mouth twists downwards, and Pansy doesn't want to point out that she's fairly certain Michal Goldstein wouldn't do that. Evidently her mother and Michal are in one of their falling-out phases again. "You know, she's already upset about Eva not giving her one, and really, with the divorce coming that's a blessing, isn't it?"

Honestly, that's something Pansy can definitely agree with her mother on. And it probably also explains the animosity between Michal and Camilla, Pansy thinks. She's fairly certain Tony's mother is blaming her for the divorce. Tony hadn't said so directly, but Pansy knows when to read between the lines. 

Which means her mother's stood up for her at some point, and that warms Pansy's heart. 

And then Camilla eyes her, and Pansy knows what's coming. She closes her eyes as her mother says, "But you know, Pansy, you're not as young as you were. It's time to start thinking about it. I know you have your career now, but you'll want to give it thought."

After they wave away dessert menus and order coffee, Pansy knows she's in the final stretch. If she can just make it to the door, she won't have to answer any more questions about her future or when her mother will get her yearned for grandchild.

"Maybe Daisy will give you a grandchild yet," Pansy jokes, pouring sugar into her espresso.

"With that mamzer, Godunov?" Camilla's mouth is a thin line, then she sighs, sadness wafting across her face. She looks over at Pansy. "I just wish she'd come home to us."

Pansy nods, putting her hand on her mother's briefly, surprised at her own affection. "I do too. I told her not to go with him."

"I stopped talking to your father for a bit." Her mother daubs the corner of the napkin at her mouth. "He's going to buy me a bracelet, but there's nothing that can replace a daughter." She looks over at Pansy. "Either one of them."

The espresso is bitter, as is the knowledge that her mother shares her worries. 

Pansy drinks slowly, her heart heavy.

***

The commissary's quiet towards the end of the lunch rush. Draco sits alone at a table in the back, nursing a cup of tea, his plate empty in front of him save a few scraps of rocket from his salad. He should have gone out for lunch, he thinks. Perhaps to Pret in Trafalgar. It feels strange to be sat here by himself. He'd thought perhaps he might run into Pans or Blaise or perhaps even Harry, but none of them had come in. Probably for the best, Draco supposes. Especially Harry. They're trying not to be seen together in the Ministry more than absolutely necessary at the moment.

He glances around again, looking for a friendly face. He hasn't even seen Althea yet, and that makes him wonder if the whole of Seven-Four-Alpha's gone out for lunch, maybe even celebrating Harry's birthday. Draco doesn't think he likes that, if he's honest. Not out of jealousy, really, but more loneliness. He hates that he feels so set apart from his team, that he's no longer part of Seven-Four-Alpha, but adrift in the Department of Mysteries with only Muriel Burke to tether him at the moment. At least in the Auror force he'd always had Blaise or Pansy beside him, friends who he could turn to when he was feeling uncertain. Unhappy. 

Now he hasn't anyone. He can't even tell Blaise or Pans that he feels this way; Draco's making the choice himself to be apart from them, choosing Harry and whatever this is between them over being with his best friends.

And even sitting here alone over the remnants of his lunch, Draco knows he'd make the same choice again. He thinks of Harry on his knees this morning in the kitchen, looking up at Draco as he swallowed Draco's prick down, sucking Draco until he'd shuddered and cried out, arched over Harry's shoulders, his long, pale fingers tangling in the thick snarl of Harry's dark curls. 

Draco wonders what Harry'll think of his birthday present tonight. Draco needs to go by Madame Malkin's after work, pick up the last bit of it that she's set aside for him. A soft, quiet, almost uncertain thrill goes through Draco; he's never shared this side of himself with Harry. They've never talked about it before, and perhaps they ought to have, Draco thinks, but he wants to see the look on Harry's face when their guests have all gone home, wants to know firsthand what Harry thinks when he sees Draco walk down the stairs. He takes a sip of tepid tea, imagining it, hoping that the other order he'd put in with Philippe will arrive from Paris before their guests show up. 

He's lost in thought when a shadow falls over him. He looks up just as Bertie Aubrey sits down, taking the chair across from him. "Haven't seen you in a while, lad." He hesitates. "Outside of your dad's funeral, I suppose. I'm sorry about that, you know."

"Bertie," Draco says, and he feels his cheeks warm. He's been avoiding his old mentor, he knows, as much as he hasn't wanted to admit it. He's still a bit angry at Bertie for telling him to end things with Harry before he'd left for New York, and he doesn't know what to say. He settles for, "Thanks," and an awkward, uneasy silence. 

"I hear you're doing well down in Croaker's realm," Bertie says, and he leans back in his chair, draping his arm over the one beside him. He looks good, Draco thinks, sharper, more spiffy. Bertie's traded in his worn Aran jumper for a bright yellow tie and a proper dress shirt, even if the shoulders are creased and the sleeves are rolled up over his forearms. 

Draco sets his tea mug down. "Well enough, I suppose." That's what Croaker had told him this morning at least before informing him he'll be joining Muriel at Azkaban at some point tomorrow. They need an extra Legilimens, and Draco doesn't want to think about the fact that he'll be working again with Jake Durant. It'd been awkward enough in New York at moments, and Draco'd just had to deal with the fact that Jake was his boyfriend's ex. Now he has to add Blaise into the mix and be annoyed with Durant over that particular cock-up. It's frustrating, but he supposes he ought to bloody well get used to it. Muriel's already warned him that the Legilimens world is a small one and filled with feuds, and by the time his career is even halfway through he'll have irritated half the Legilimens across the globe. He should just expect that.

Bertie's just watching him, and there's a wistful, almost sad, expression on his face. "That's good." 

They sit silently, just looking at each other, and Draco can feel the gulf between them, the shift in their relationship that Draco can't quite explain. He bites his lip, then says, "You look good as a Deputy Head Auror."

That makes Bertie chuckle and shake his head, and for a moment it's almost as if Draco's back in Bertie's office, a young Auror still wet behind the ears, sipping tea and asking for Bertie's advice. Bertie smoothes his hand down his tie and shrugs. "Rather have my jumpers, if I'm honest, but Gawain insists on full Auror uniform for us both." He gives Draco a wry smile, his bushy moustache twitching. "If he sees me here, he'll whinge about me being jacketless in public. Right old bastard that one can be."

Draco crumples up a paper serviette, shredding the edge, and gives Bertie a half-smile in return. "Price of the job, though."

"Something like that." Bertie's quiet for a moment, then he says, his voice low, "So you didn't take my advice about Potter, I hear."

"I didn't." Draco glances over at him. "It's worked out, though."

Bertie frowns, then looks at Draco. "He kept his rank and position. You've been sent to Croaker. Not a promotion in my book."

"It pays better." Draco rests his elbows on the table. "And I'm being trained in Legilimency, so I suppose I can't complain."

"So was your aunt," Bertie says, rubbing the back of his head. "And look how fucking mad she went. Legilimency isn't something to play around with, lad. It'll send you to the Janus Thickey in a heartbeat."

Draco blinks, trying to take in what Bertie's just said. "Aunt Bella was an Occlumens," he says, and Bertie snorts.

"Your bloody aunt was trained by Muriel Burke." Bertie eyes Draco, his thick eyebrows going up. "You didn't know that."

"No one's bothered to mention it," Draco says, and that unsettles him. "Bella was an Unspeakable?" It sounds utterly mad when he says it out loud, and Draco thinks Bertie must be mistaken. "I don't believe it." Draco thinks he'd bloody well have heard that from someone. His mother if no one else. 

Bertie shrugs. "Not for long, I reckon, but I heard she was on the rolls." He studies Draco, leans closer. "Muriel didn't tell you?"

Draco shakes his head, picks up his tea mug. When he takes a sip, it's cold. Almost undrinkable. He swallows it anyway, sets the mug back down. His gaze flicks back to Bertie. "Perhaps it slipped her mind."

"Not bloody likely." Bertie sighs, runs his hands over his face. "This is what I was afraid of when Gawain said he was signing your transfer papers. That lot down there, Croaker, all of them. They're bloody liars, lad." He looks over at Draco, worry furrowing his brow. "You remember you're a copper first and foremost, Draco Malfoy. Not one of them. You're a good Auror. I trained you. John Dawlish trained you. Don't let them get in your head; they'll burrow down and make you doubt everything you used to know about law enforcement. They bend rules down in Mysteries, and you know I don't mind looking the other way now and again, but Saul Croaker takes that to a goddamned art form. Don't fucking trust him."

And Draco doesn't know what to say. It's not as if he disagrees with Bertie; he's already realised that Croaker will use him for whatever he wants, won't even give a fuck about Draco himself if a case was more important. The Department of Mysteries isn't like the Aurors; Saul Croaker's nothing like Gawain Robards. The Aurors are cutthroat, but Draco suspects the Unspeakables are worse, and he doesn't know who he can trust any more on either side. He looks up at Bertie. "I'm not tapping out," he says after a moment. "I want to be a Legilimens, Bertie."

Bertie nods. "And you should. Just…." He trails off, looks down at his folded hands. "Trust Potter if you need to," he says after a moment. "Parkinson and Zabini too. Maybe Granger, although I've a feeling that girl's working her own game down there herself." 

"And you?" Draco says, and there's a sharp edge to his voice that surprises him. 

It surprises Bertie too. He glances up at Draco, eyebrows going up, and then a wide smile breaks through his moustache. "Circe, no, lad. I'll use you too if I can, but I'd like to think it's for your own benefit." 

And that makes Draco's mouth quirk at the corner. "Refreshingly honest." 

Bertie's laugh rings out through the commissary. Heads turn their way. "I try." His face sobers though, and he sighs. "Will it help if I admit I may have been wrong about you and Potter? Even if it's ruined your promising Auror career." He scowls at that, and Draco knows Bertie's disappointed in him. Bertie'd always wanted Draco to follow in his footsteps, to be the son he never had. 

Merlin but Draco's so bloody tired of failing his father figures because they want him to be some sort of paragon, to strive for an impossible level of perfection he can never attain. He looks at Bertie and says, "I'm not yours to shape, you know. I wasn't my father's either."

"I know, lad." Bertie's voice is soft. Gentle, even, and the look he turns on Draco is kind. "I'm proud of what you're becoming. But you can't fault me for being worried as well, particularly with you in the middle of that mysterious pit of vipers."

"They're not all that bad," Draco says, but he knows he hasn't met the whole of the Unspeakable team yet. 

Bertie just snorts. "Just wait." He studies Draco's face, then sighs again. "Be careful. And don't trust Muriel Burke further than you can throw that mangy cow. She's a canny one, she is, and she'll chew you up and spit you out the moment you're not worth anything to her. Do you understand?" His eyes are bright, worried as they search Draco's face. 

Draco nods, suddenly uncertain. He'd thought he knew his place, thought things had worked out for him and Harry both, thought he'd landed on his feet.

Now he doesn't know if he has. 

"Right then," Bertie says. He pushes himself out of his chair. "You need anything, lad, you come to me. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco echoes, and the word catches in the back of his throat. "I will. I promise."

Bertie exhales and gives Draco a faint smile. "Good." He glances around the commissary, then back at Draco. "We'll keep this to ourselves, yes?" He looks a bit unsure of himself. "If word gets back to Croaker that I've said anything…" He trails off, frowns. "Well, you know how things go around here."

And the thing of it is, Draco does. Croaker would go after Bertie, and Draco doesn't think Bertie's solid enough yet as Deputy Head Auror to withstand an attack from the Head Unspeakable. It'd get ugly, and Draco knows damned well who'd go down first. And who Bertie would fucking take with him. 

Draco'd do the same in his shoes. 

"Don't worry," Draco says after a moment. "I'll keep my gob shut."

Bertie's smile is warm. Fatherly. It goes straight through Draco's heart, and it nearly takes his breath away at how much he's missed that. "Well done," he says, and then he's gone, leaving Draco alone once more. 

Merlin, Draco thinks, watching Bertie slip out between the commissary doors. What the hell has he got himself into?

He rubs his hands over his face and sighs.

***

Althea's stood in the middle of her tiny sitting room for a good ten minutes, just summoning up the courage to Apparate. She's nervous about tonight. It's one thing to meet her team for drinks down the pub after work. It's entirely different to be invited to her guv's house for dinner on his birthday. She looks down at the bottle of firewhisky in her hand. It's an idiotic gift, she thinks, but it's the only thing she could think of. She doesn't know Potter well enough yet to figure out his likes and dislikes, and a copy of Rita Skeeter's unauthorised biography seemed like a bad choice. So she picked up a bottle of firewhisky. One of the more expensive ones; the bloke in the shop down Diagon had told her yesterday it was one of their best. Althea just hopes it won't be the third or fourth bottle he receives tonight.

"Fuck it," she murmurs. She could dither about this all bloody night if she lets herself. So she draws deep breath, fixing the address Malfoy'd given her in her mind and on the exhale, she Apparates.

Althea lands on the doorstep of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in Islington, feeling the house's wards shift and curve around her, blocking her arrival from view. She waits for a moment, then shakes her head. "Come on, Whitaker," she murmurs. "It's just a bloody dinner party. Who cares if the fanciest do you've ever been to was Marcus' annual Crimbo booze-up?" She reaches for the heavy doorknocker and lets it fall, wincing a bit as a boom echoes inside the house. She waits, smoothes down the front of the red silk blouse that she's tucked into her best flat-front black trousers. The nice thing, Althea thinks, about not having tits is that she can leave the top three buttons undone and still look put together. She's twisted her hair into a thick plait that she's wrapped into a knot at the nape of her neck, so she thinks she's presentable at least. Or she hopes she is. 

When the door opens, Althea looks up into Malfoy's surprised face. She's grateful she chose her best shirt for tonight; Malfoy's dressed in a charcoal suit and slate grey tie that complements his eyes. "You could have used the Floo," he says, stepping back into the cool, shadowed foyer, and Althea shrugs. 

"Don't have one," she says. "My flat's too small." And too Muggle, Althea wants to say, but she thinks better of bringing that up. "Didn't want to go back to the Ministry just to Floo over."

"No," Malfoy says. "I'd think not." As Althea steps into the house, the wards spark lightly across her skin, taking her magical signature, she suspects. She wouldn't expect anything less from a house owned by Harry Potter. Security must be an absolute nightmare. 

Althea turns, taking in the shining chandelier and the pale grey walls. "Nice place."

Malfoy smiles faintly. "Harry's done a bit of work on it. According to my mother it wasn't anywhere quite as modern when her aunt and uncle owned the place."

"Oh." Althea holds out the firewhisky. "Brought this for the guv."

"Good bottle," Malfoy says, and he actually looks impressed as he takes the bottle from her. "Harry will love it." He hesitates, then says, "Don't look so worried, Althea. You know most of the people here."

She knows. It's the ones she hasn't met that are making her nervous.

Althea follows Malfoy up the polished walnut staircase and into what looks like a library, filled with bookcases that stretch from floor to ceiling on either side of the rather impressive hearth. A mirror hangs over the mantel; it's old, Althea can tell from the spots on the glass, but the frame's gold and lovely, carved in scrolls and swirls, and there's a huge vase of pink and white roses and peonies in front of it, their scent drifting across the room, mingling with the faintest traces of beeswax and lemon oil. It reminds her of her mother and the way they'd turned over the sitting room every week she'd been home from Hogwarts, rubbing the wax and oil into the wooden floors and furniture until they all gleamed.

"Wine?" Malfoy asks her. "Or something stronger?"

"Neither." Althea shakes her head. She's too nervous to keep herself to one drink, she knows. Better to avoid it all, for now at least. Malfoy eyes her as if he wants to say something, but he catches himself, then nods without making an issue of it. Althea's grateful. 

Potter's in the wide leather armchair opposite the hearth; the two long sofas on either side are filled with Granger and her husband on one side, and, on the other, Narcissa Malfoy along with a woman Althea recognises from the funeral of Malfoy's father and a young boy with turquoise hair who looks utterly bored as he flips through a comic book. Zabini's slouched in another armchair, and he raises a glass of something amber her way when she walks in. 

"Welcome, Althea," Zabini drawls, and Althea wonders if he's in a better mood than he'd been in at work. He'd snapped her head off twice, but she hadn't cared that much, not when the guv had pulled her aside, and just murmured, _he ran into Jake._ Althea hadn't pushed after that; she'd just let Zabini be, scowling down at the stacks of paperwork they've been sorting through, sightings of Lestrange that have been reported through Europe. One had even come in from Malaysia, but Althea's fairly certain it's just mistaken identity. Like all the others, really. In her opinion, Lestrange would be a fucking fool to be out and about anywhere right now. He'd know they were looking for him, casting their net wide. And as mad as he is, Rodolphus Lestrange is anything but a complete idiot. Even Althea knows that.

Malfoy perches on the arm of Potter's chair, passes over the firewhisky. "Althea brought this for your enjoyment," he says, and the look he gives the guv is soft and fond. It makes Althea's heart twist a bit, especially when Potter glances up at Malfoy, a soft smile curving his lips, before he turns to Althea.

"Thanks, Whitaker," the guv says. He twists the bottle in his hands, looks down at the label before whistling softly. He's in a suit too, this one charcoal, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. "Nice bottle."

Althea's face heats. "Hope you like it," she says, a bit awkwardly. She doesn't want to admit she didn't pick it out herself, but it also feels a bit gauche to let them think she's a firewhisky connoisseur. "It came recommended," she settles on. It's close enough to the truth, Althea thinks.

Granger pats the sofa cushion next to her. "Come sit," she says, and the smile she gives Althea is warm and welcoming. "You know Ron, of course." Weasley bends past his wife and waves at her. He gives her a quick wink, and Althea feels her stomach calm, at least a little bit. 

The sofa's more comfortable than Althea would think, even with three people on it. She nods towards Narcissa. "Mrs Malfoy," she says. "Good to see you again."

"Sergeant Whitaker," Narcissa says, and she's stopped by a sharp tut from her son. 

"No titles tonight, Mother," Malfoy says, and his hand's resting lightly on the guv's shoulder. It's intimate and possessive, and Althea envies them both that careful, public touch. "First names only." His gaze flicks towards Weasley. "Or surnames, if one must."

Narcissa shakes her head, but she's smiling as she turns back to Althea. "Well then. Althea. Allow me to introduce my sister Andromeda Black and her grandson Teddy Lupin. I'm not certain you've officially met." She glances at her sister. "Althea's on Draco and Harry's team." 

"Harry's team, Mother," Malfoy says quietly, and there's an undercurrent of pain there that makes Althea glance over at him. He's looking down at his hands, folded in his lap, and Althea thinks it must be difficult for him to be with them right now, to know that he's not part of Seven-Four-Alpha.

And she can't stop herself from saying, "Still yours too." 

The guv looks at her, and he's smiling now, his hand settling on the small of Malfoy's back. "She's right," he says, and Malfoy sighs, but he nods, his hair falling over his cheek. 

Malfoy looks over at Althea. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"It's just the truth." Zabini leans forward, his mouth a thin line. He grips his glass between his hands. "You're still ours, Draco. Always bloody will be. Whatever the fucking DMLE might think."

Malfoy draws in a ragged breath, then gives them all a faint smile. "The Unspeakables might protest," he says, looking over at Granger. 

Granger shakes her head. "I already told you," she says. "I never wanted to break up this team."

They're all silent for a moment, and then Narcissa turns to her sister. "Althea's mother was Clio Yaxley, do you remember?" The change of subject is welcome; Althea can feel the whole room relax.

Andromeda gives Althea a small smile. "I do. Clio and I spoke quite frequently over the years." She hesitates, then says, "It was more difficult at that time to be intermarried." Her sister stiffens beside her, and Althea can tell there's something there, something neither of them are quite comfortable with, and then Andromeda reaches over and squeezes Narcissa's hand before glancing back at Althea. "I was so very sorry to hear what happened to her," she says. "Her _Prophet_ columns were always my favourite part of the paper. Your mother was a very talented journalist."

"Thank you," Althea manages to say, but her throat's a bit tight. She's never really spoken to anyone who knew her mother like that, and she wonders what Andromeda Black could tell her about Clio Whitaker, what she might remember. Althea wants to ask her, but it doesn't seem the place right now, here at the guv's birthday dinner. 

Teddy squirms beside Andromeda, and she looks down at her grandson. "Say hello to Althea, Ted."

"Hello." Teddy doesn't look up from his comic book; his grandmother sighs in fond annoyance, and Althea can't help but smile. She tilts her head, gets a glimpse of the comic title. 

"Oh," Althea says. "Spider-man. I read those when I was your age." 

That catches Teddy's attention. "Did you?" He gives her a curious look, and his turquoise hair turns a deep teal. "Are you a Muggle?"

For a moment, the room stills, but Althea just laughs. "My dad is. He's the one who bought me my first comic; he's a whole closet of them from when he was younger."

"Wicked," Teddy breathes, and his eyes are wide. "Nan, can I have a closet for my comics?"

Andromeda's mouth twitches. "We'll talk about it later, love." She glances over at Althea. "I think you've won yourself a fan for life."

The Floo bursts into life, green flames twisting through the burnt logs in the hearth, and Malfoy says, with more than a bit of annoyance, "That'd best be Pans or I'll go through myself and drag her--"

"It'll be fine," the guv says, his hand settling on Malfoy's thigh, and Malfoy settles back against him.

Parkinson steps through, stumbling just a bit on the edge of the hearth, her high heel catching on one of the bricks. "Sorry, I'm late," she says breathlessly, and she tugs at the hem of her short, plum silk dress. She looks bloody smashing in it, Althea thinks, the drape of the neckline showing off her tits, her legs long and pale beneath the mid-thigh skirt. Her dark hair's down and rumpled in a way that makes it look as if she's just rolled out of bed, and Althea thinks she's never seen anyone as fucking gorgeous as Pansy Parkinson. She knows Zabini's watching her as he lifts his glass to his lips, and she tries not to stare, but she can't help herself. Particularly when Parkinson glances around the room and realises there's not a seat left for her. 

"Althea, darling," she says cheerfully, and she settles herself on the arm of the sofa, her smooth, bare legs draping over Althea's knees. She smells brilliant, like orange blossoms and salt water, and when she leans forward, the silk of her dress stretches across her tits, making the round nubs of her nipples rather prominent. Althea feels Granger nudge her husband beside her, and when she glances over, Weasley's face is pink, and he's looking away, much to his wife's amusement. 

Well, Althea thinks, at least she's not the only one affected. 

"Happy birthday, guv," Parkinson says, and she throws him a small package, tightly wrapped in linen. 

Potter frowns down at it. "What's this?" 

"Pressie for later." Parkinson beams at him, and the guv unwraps the linen, his eyebrow going up as it holds a small tin in his hand. Parkinson just raises an eyebrow, a small smile playing across her purple-plummy lips, and Malfoy sighs.

"For Merlin's sake, Pans," Malfoy says just as Potter opens the tin and the very distinct scent of Gillyweed drifts across the room, in front of an entire group of Unspeakables, Aurors, and Malfoy's female relatives.

Teddy's the only one who doesn't turn to look at Parkinson. She shrugs, and there's a wicked look on her face. "A little birdie told me you enjoyed it."

The guv bursts into laughter. "Oh, did he?" He glances up at Malfoy, whose face is nearly scarlet. 

"I hate you," Malfoy says to Parkinson, his voice low, and for a moment, Althea thinks he might just be serious. "You're a horrible wench."

And then Narcissa leans forward and sniffs, her nose wrinkling. "That smells lovely, don't you think Andy?" She glances at Parkinson. "Pansy, darling, you'll have to tell me where you found your supply. Andromeda and I always did like a bit of a smoke when we were younger, didn't we?" 

"Mother," Malfoy says, his voice high and scandalised. "Honestly--"

"Oh, your generation," his aunt says with a smile. "Always so shocked that your elders indulged as well." 

Weasley's snort of laughter is barely muffled, and they all look over at him. "What?" he asks. "I don't know why you're all so surprised. The first time Bill and Charlie ever lit up was when they found Mum and Dad's Gillyweed stash in the back of the pantry. I think I was five."

"That explains so much about your family," Granger murmurs as the guv closes the tin and sets it aside. 

Weasley just shrugs and winks at his wife. 

Parkinson shifts, and Althea's all too aware of the press of long, pale calves against her thighs. "Sorry," Parkinson says, and Althea just nods, unable to speak for a moment, fighting the urge to slide her hand across Parkinson's soft skin. She looks up, and Zabini catches her eye. 

_Careful_ , he mouths, but he's giving her a small smile. 

Althea feels her cheeks warm, and she turns away. Parkinson presses a heel into the sofa cushion, her foot arching in the purple scrap of matte ostrich leather. Althea wonders what it would feel like to slide her fingers beneath the sole of Parkinson's foot, lift it out of the shoe, work her thumb and her knuckles along that tight tendon. Wonders if Parkinson's head would fall back, if she would sigh and moan softly, if her tits would press up against the silk of her dress, full and round and perfect.

Fuck, Althea thinks, and she shifts beneath Parkinson's legs, the folds of her labia already slick in her knickers. It's going to be a goddamned long evening, she thinks. Followed by a night of wanking in her bed like a pathetic idiot. She sighs and tries to focus back on the others. It's harder than she'd like it to be.

"I can't believe Harry actually agreed to dinner," Weasley's saying. "He never wants to celebrate his birthday." He glances over at his wife. "When's the last time we managed something like this?"

Granger takes a sip from her wineglass before answering. "Four years ago, maybe? So cheers to Malfoy for bringing us all together."

"Hear, hear," Zabini says, lifting his glass, and Malfoy's face pinkens again. 

Potter catches Malfoy's hand, lifts it to his lips, kissing his knuckles lightly. "He's persuasive," the guv says, and the way he's looking at Malfoy makes Althea's heart ache.

The room's silent for a moment, then Parkinson says, "Oh Merlin, don't be such sops about it," and a soft chuckle goes around the sofas. Potter just flicks two fingers her way, then pulls Malfoy into a quick, soft kiss. There's nothing sexual about it, not really, but Althea looks away, feeling as if she's seen something too private, too intimate. 

A cough comes from the doorway. Althea glances over; there's a wizened old house elf standing there, in a ratty but clean tea towel with a heraldic crest stitched on it in black, the words _toujours pur_ embroidered beneath. He's obviously trying to look proper; he ruins it all by lifting the edge of the tea towel to scratch his arse. 

"Dinner's served," he says, his voice croaky and rough. 

Malfoy sighs. "Thank you, Kreacher." 

His mother's knuckles are pressed to her mouth, and she's trying not to laugh. She holds it in until the house elf shuffles away, and then her laughter fills the air, bright and sparkling, and when Malfoy glances her way, he almost looks relieved, Althea thinks. 

"Mother," Malfoy says, but his own lips are twitching, and the whole lot of them are laughing and smiling as they stand. Althea misses the warmth of Parkinson against her. 

And then Parkinson slides her arm under Althea's. "Walk me to dinner," Parkinson says lightly. They follow the others down the hall towards the dining room.

Perhaps, Althea thinks, her nervousness receding as she takes the seat beside Parkinson at the long, polished table, dinner at the guv's isn't that terrible an idea.

***

Harry's sat at the glossy, dark dining table, a good two fingers of Althea's excellent firewhisky waiting for him in a heavy glass on a cork mat near his right hand. He's toying with the glass, not really drinking it yet, watching the steam hover in the cool air of the now empty Grimmauld formal dining room. The plates have been cleared, the glasses removed, the guests have been bid farewell, and it's just him and Draco left in the comfortable quiet of the house.

Dinner hadn't been so bad, really. Harry'd been surprised at how well Narcissa, Andromeda, and Teddy had got on with Ron and Hermione and Seven-Four-Alpha. The food had been simple but nice, Harry thinks. Exactly what he would have wanted, no fancy dishes or elaborate courses. Draco'd done well with the arrangements, picked everything that Harry would have himself. A solid roast and potatoes, a salad and bread. Harry'd particularly enjoyed the summer pudding for afters. Kreacher'd brought in Harry's with a small candle flickering above it, and everyone had sung and cheered. It was the only moment in the evening that screamed _this is Harry's birthday_ , and really, Harry'd been surprised to find he enjoyed it. He supposes he's finding his real family now, if what he and Draco are building can be called that. It's one of the first times Harry's felt truly welcome on his own birthday, and he's grateful for Draco's pushing him to have the party.

Now he's waiting for his present, or, rather, what Draco'd promised him after the party if he'd been a good boy. And Harry thinks he has been. Very, very good. 

Still, Draco's been upstairs for half an hour, and Harry's getting a bit impatient. He's already half-hard, even though they'd started the day with blow jobs at breakfast so that ought to have taken the edge off at least a little bit. But that doesn't seem to be the case when it comes to Draco, does it? Christ, but Harry's counting on some part of this evening giving him the chance to pound Draco into the mattress. Or the sofa. Or perhaps even the dining table. Harry eyes the glossy surface, imagining Draco spread out across it. He hopes that's what's in store for tonight, but he's no idea what's taking Draco so long.

The lights in the dining room have dimmed and warmed--the house seems to respond to Draco even more than it responds to Harry's cues. In the low, diffuse golden light Harry shifts in his chair, his elbows pressing into the padded wood armrests. He's a bit eager, but too relaxed to be truly impatient. Wine with dinner and the brandies they'd had after in the library had been delightful, and now Harry just wants his boyfriend.

He's thinking of calling up the stairs, maybe teasing Draco a bit, although it goes against what he'd promised. Draco'd threatened to blindfold him if he came peeking, and yeah, that hadn't half been a turn-on. They'll have to try that some time, preferably when Draco's up for topping; Harry bloody loves sensory deprivation when he's being fucked. It makes everything else so intense.

Harry picks up the glass and takes a sip, letting the whisky burn down his throat, clear his head a bit. Fuck, but it's good. Althea knows how to pick a bottle, he thinks, and he'll have to ask her where she'd found this one. He settles back in the chair, his hand warm from the glass, his elbow cool on the wood of the table. He's sprawled out a bit, legs in front of him, his shirt sleeves rolled up, another button or two undone at the collar. He'd hung his jacket over the chair next to him when Draco'd first disappeared upstairs, telling him to wait here for him. The house is quiet, anticipatory. And then Harry thinks he hears Draco on the stairs, and he sits up a bit straighter, hoping it's not just the creaking of the house teasing him.

It's not, thank Christ.

But when Draco appears, Harry almost drops his drink into his lap. He has to react quickly so as not to douse his prick with the fiery, stinging liquid, putting a premature end to his birthday night. He sets the glass hastily to the side and gapes open-mouthed at his boyfriend.

Draco's stood in the doorway, a hand curled against the decorative woodwork around the entrance to the dining room. He's taller than usual, and Harry's astonished mind registers that Draco's wearing strappy black high heels and smooth, silk stockings. Harry's eyes go up from Draco's slim calves to the black silk encasing his thighs. His mouth waters a little as his eyes hit the edge of the tiny black lace dress Draco's wearing, sheer with nothing beneath it save the suspender belt and a little frill of what looks like black silk and lace in the vee of Draco's thighs. Harry can make out the bulge of Draco's prick through the constraining layers of lace, and he wants to free it, mouth Draco's long, pretty shaft, suck at his heavy bollocks. Draco's sharp hipbones jut through the lacy black of the dress, and his chest is flat, the drape of the neckline framing his gorgeous, wing-like collarbones. A single strand of luminous pearls nestles against his pale skin, echoing the plunging line of the dress' neck, and Harry realises that these are the pearls the house'd given Draco on his own birthday, now reappearing on Draco for Harry's birthday present. He doesn't know what to say, so he breathes out, and whispers, "Fuck."

Draco shifts, tosses his head a bit. His hair is loose and wavy, brushing across his shoulders, a long, pearlescent blond fall in the candlelit dining room. He's biting his lip, not moving, letting Harry rake his hungry gaze over him. There's a bit of pink on Draco's lips and cheekbones, a light touch of mascara on his dark lashes. Harry realises that Draco's made himself up, subtly, so he looks the part of the young society witch. 

The mistress of Grimmauld Place, Harry realises. Fucking hell.

Harry's body shivers with lust, shocked and delighted that his boyfriend would do this for him, realising that he's being offered a side of Draco he's not sure many people have seen. Draco looks shy now, almost hesitant, as if he's waiting for Harry's approval.

Draco looks goddamned delicious. Harry pushes back his chair, his prick pressing against his flies, letting his hand fall down into his lap, cupping his erection. He's so bloody hard now, his trousers tented, and Draco's mouth opens slightly.

"Oh," Draco murmurs. He's looking at Harry's cock as if he wants to devour it. Fuck, Harry hopes he does. 

"Jesus, you're beautiful." Harry doesn't mind that Draco can see how turned on he is. He opens his legs a little more, beckoning Draco. "Come here, you gorgeous creature."

Draco saunters over, his walk smooth and seductive in heels, his arse pushed out just enough to drive Harry bloody wild. Harry's amazed at how natural Draco looks, how beautifully turned out, and how capable he is at this. Harry's not minded a spot of drag here and there over the years. He doesn't like dressing up too much himself, unless it's for Pride or a carnival and then he throws himself into the carefree spirit of it all, but Harry loves seeing the art and the genderplay of drag, loves the place it has in his community, the subtle rebellion of undercutting social standards, of subverting straight ideals of feminine beauty and masculine presentation. 

Harry also bloody well knows from personal experience how hard it is to walk even somewhat gracefully in heels. 

And now, here, in his own home, with Draco, the artistry and the sincerity of Draco's presentation of himself takes Harry's breath away. Harry knows this whole night has had serious overtones of claiming one another in front of their circle of family and friends, of coupling and joining their lives together. Harry doesn't want to rush anything, doesn't want to name what this is between them, but he knows Draco offers himself to Harry every night, and now he's giving himself to Harry like this for his birthday, taking on the mantle of mistress that the house wants so terribly to wrap him in and twisting it, queering it, making it his own, the way he's taken on the pearls that sit so beautifully along his throat. 

The very thought of it makes Harry's head swim, more than firewhisky or brandy or wine. He's drunk on Draco Malfoy, he thinks, and he hopes he doesn't ever have to live without him. He doesn't know what he'd do without being able to touch Draco, to feel him, to continue to be surprised and amazed by him on a daily basis.

Draco smoothes the pad of his thumb across Harry's lower lip. "You're pensive tonight, birthday boy." He's even modulated his voice a little--it's still Draco's voice, but lighter somehow, a bit more melodic and subtly teasing. "Don't you like your present?" He smells like roses, although that may also be the bloody house, Harry's lust-addled brain supplies.

Harry reaches up both hands, putting them on Draco's narrow hips, his palms rubbing across the surface of the lace. "I fucking love my present," he says simply. "I'm just figuring out how to unwrap it."

Carefully he pulls Draco into his lap, Draco's long legs folding over the arm of the chair. Harry's strong enough to support him like this, kiss those lovely, pink lips whilst Draco gasps softly, arching his throat to let Harry's mouth slip along it. Something in his hand falls to the table, making a hard sound on the wood.

"What's that?" Harry looks over at Draco's outstretched hand.

Draco shifts, sitting up, putting his feet on the floor. He rubs his lace covered arse against Harry's prick as he bends to retrieve the fluted glass phial that's rolled on its side, and Harry groans from the faint pressure, the sight of Draco's pale skin through the lace. He can't get enough of Draco, doesn't want to wait any longer, wants to sink into him until they're both writhing on the table and sweaty with bliss.

"Patience," Draco says, and Harry realises he saw what Harry was thinking. Harry laughs in response, unashamed of how much he wants to fuck his boyfriend. Draco gives him a disapproving look. "I want to make sure this doesn't break."

"What is it?" Harry asks distractedly, his hands on Draco's sides, his cheek rubbing against Draco's lace-covered arse. Fuck, but he does smell like roses, Harry thinks, and he wants to unhook the straps holding Draco's stockings with his teeth.

Draco pulls away and turns around, forcing Harry to drop his hands. Draco waves the open phial under Harry's nose. More roses. And vanilla, and the faintest whiff of musk and sweat. 

"That smells like you," Harry murmurs, and Draco laughs.

"It's French courtesan's lube," Draco says. "Delicious, smells like Amortentia, and you'll never come harder. Plus it's guaranteed to last for hours."

Harry blinks up at him, intrigued by the self-satisfied smile on Draco's face. "I've never heard of it, but it smells incredible."

"It's very hard to get. I know someone in Paris who brews it privately." Draco tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, and Harry frowns at him. 

"Do I need to be jealous?" Harry asks, but it's more of a rhetorical question, given the flare of irritation that goes through him, twisting his stomach, tightening his shoulders. 

Draco's eyes are bright, amused. "Phillippe's an old friend," he says. "But it's Blaise he shagged, not me."

"Oh," Harry says, and he relaxes, a bit taken aback by his own surge of possessiveness. "Well. Good." He thinks he ought to apologise, but Draco touches Harry's cheek. 

"You've nothing to worry about," Draco murmurs, and his fingers are soft against Harry's skin. He leans in, kisses Harry, slow and careful, letting his tongue swipe lightly against Harry's lip before pulling back. Harry's whole body aches for Draco. "Shall we?" Draco dangles the flask in front of Harry.

Harry takes flask and sets it aside on the table. He licks his bottom lip, a not quite unconscious mimicry of Draco's kiss. Draco shivers; his chest heaves slightly, a flush staining his cheeks. Harry breathes out, and says, "I'm going to fuck you here. Any objections?"

"Not at all." Draco's lips curve in a slight smile.

Harry smacks the side of Draco's thigh playfully. "Then get your gorgeous arse on the table." 

Draco slides up onto the table--gingerly, Harry notes, and that's curious--and sits on the edge. His knees are together, the short skirt ruched across his thighs.

Harry says, "Spread your legs." Draco's flat belly curves in, and then he does what Harry asks.

Between splayed, stocking-covered knees, Harry can see the fastenings of the suspender belt, the wet, swollen head of Draco's prick pushing out of the black lace knickers. He exhales, then stares at the amazing vision spread out in front of him for a moment.

Draco leans back on his elbows, his hair across his face, his eyes shadowed in the low light. "Like what you see?"

"Immensely." Harry puts his hands on Draco's hips, sliding the lace of the dress up further. When he looks, he can see the strap of Draco's black thong and the curve of a thick silver ring nestled in Draco's crease, one that Harry knows full well comes from the toy chest upstairs in their bedroom. His own prick swells at the thought of Draco opening himself for Harry's enjoyment. His gaze flicks up to Draco's face. "Jesus. Did you wear a plug all night?"

Draco shrugs. "Of course." He raises an eyebrow. "Although I wore a smaller one during the party. This one's a bit bigger. And heftier."

Harry's cock is so hard, he can't see straight. Fucking goddamned hell. He breathes out, his hands shaking a bit. He flattens them against Draco's thighs. Draco wore a plug all night for him, in front of his mother, his best friends, and Harry's friends. 

"I fucking love you." Harry does so goddamned much, he realises, his heart swelling almost as much as his cock. "You're unbelievable."

"Happy birthday, Harry," Draco whispers, and the look in his eyes is soft and warm and filled with love.

Harry stretches a hand down, pulling Draco's stockinged calf up. He unbuckles the high heel, dropping it gently to the floor, then mouths at Draco's silk-covered arch, his ankle, up his calf to the inside of his knee. He repeats the process with the other leg.

"Fuck." Draco's voice is thick, raw with need. He drops his head back, letting Harry see the long arch of his throat. "Oh, Harry."

Harry trails his thumbs over the gap of thigh between the top of Draco's stockings and his knickers. Christ, Harry wants to mouth at Draco's slick prick, take the wet head between his lips and suck until Draco's writhing beneath him, but he has a sense that it'll be game over, at least for the first time, if he does so. And Harry wants to come inside Draco. Badly. 

Instead, Harry pushes the narrow crotch of the knickers aside, holding it away to keep it from constricting Draco's cock. He plays with the flared stainless ring of the plug's base, circling it with his fingers, petting Draco's wet, stretched arsehole, listening to Draco stutter a moan as the heavy plug moves inside him. Harry pulls it out of Draco's arse in a careful, wet, sliding motion, marvelling at the weight and girth of the plug as it emerges. It's a large stainless bulb tapering to a narrow connection before the smooth, broad ring at the base. Harry's entranced with watching it come out of Draco's arse, slowly, slowly, oh so fucking slowly. The ring of Draco's muscle is already stretched, and the plug goes back in easily when Harry pushes it into Draco's hole.

"Jesus, how you look," Harry says. He stretches Draco with the plug again, pulling it out then pushing it back and forth a bit, Draco groaning and shifting and spreading his legs, his silk-clad ankles hooked over Harry's shoulders. Draco's cock is slick against the valley of his hip, a pool of wetness when Harry strokes the lace over it. Harry pulls the heavy plug out reluctantly and sets it aside, sticky on the glossy dark wood of the table they'd just eaten dinner on and that Harry plans to debauch Draco on.

"Fuck me, Harry." Draco tosses his head, his body shivering under Harry's touch. "The lube's right there. Make sure to put a lot on your cock."

Harry uncaps the phial and draws in a lungful of the scent. Now it smells like burnt sugar mixed with roses and a powdery, musky hint of Draco's cologne. Harry undoes his trousers, just thumbs the buttons open, pushing his heathered grey y-fronts down enough to free his engorged prick. The lube is beautifully viscous but not heavy, sliding over the hot skin of his prick like a whisper of wet and promise. He uses a bit more than he might usually, stroking the extra into Draco's stretched hole whilst Draco pants. 

"Ready?" Harry asks, more to make sure Draco's still with him than wondering whether he wants this. Draco's body is strung tight, legs stretched, neck arching back, arms flung over his head now, his bony wrists crossed.

"Yes. Fuck. Please, Harry--I need you in me." Draco draws in a ragged breath. "Fucking me with that perfect prick of yours." Draco's lipstick is smudged, as is the mascara, and the effect that was chaste and refined before is now delightfully smeared and inviting further debauchery. 

Christ but Harry's more than happy to oblige.

Harry keeps Draco's ankles hooked over his shoulders as he stands, leaning in to bend Draco's knees to his chest, Draco's arse coming up off the table with the stretch. Harry fists his prick, slick and--if he's honest--harder and larger than he thinks he's ever been in his life. It must be the effect of the lube, but it's disconcerting. 

Draco just laughs at the surprise on Harry's face. "It's working, isn't it?" He lifts himself with his core muscles to look down at Harry's prick. "Circe. I should have ordered this from Phillippe before. Blaise has been raving about it for years."

"Baby," Harry says, his voice a bit rough, his body quivering with need, "you need to lay the fuck back down so I can get in you before I come all over that pretty pink prick of yours."

Draco catches his lip between his teeth, looking up at Harry through a tumble of hair. "Only if you promise to fuck me hard with that monster--"

"Goddamn it, Draco," Harry chokes out, and Draco just laughs, his eyes shining. "You're killing me."

"Tormenting you, you mean," Draco says, and Harry just looks at him. Draco reaches up and plucks Harry's glasses from his nose, folding the legs and setting them aside. "All right," Draco says, and his voice is a bit breathy, a bit soft. "Fuck me, Harry. Please."

When Draco lowers his shoulders again, Harry lines his prick up, swollen and slick, then pushes it into Draco's arse. He slides in one, long, unbelievable motion and Draco keens as Harry slots home, deep within him. Harry's panting and amazed--he's never, ever had this smooth of an entry into Draco's body. Draco's arse feels like velvet and the scent of Draco and the lube and the roses is driving him mad. The lace scratches against his hands as he smoothes them up Draco's chest, bracing himself over Draco. 

Draco pushes himself up slightly and Harry kisses him, their mouths meeting in a rough exchange of I-love-I-need-yous and furious kisses. Harry bites at Draco's lips, his hips circling against him. His body is on fire with want, his prick enormous and straining in Draco's stretched hole. Harry thrusts hard, then harder, hips slamming into Draco's body, his prick sliding easily in and out of him. The effect of the lube is nothing short of miraculous, and Harry's determined to find out more about it when he has a mind to think with again. Draco's rolling his head, writhing against Harry with each thrust, and Harry loves the abstract pattern Draco's pale hair makes spread against the dark wood as he shifts, loves the gasps of pleasure and the bite of Draco's short nails in his shoulders.

Their mouths meet again, in one rough thrust of their bodies together, and Draco whispers against Harry's mouth, "Take me, Harry. Please." 

Harry's body explodes into spasms; with each thrust his prick spurts spunk into Draco's writhing body, his hips shuddering against Draco's. Draco holds his breath, one hand fisted into Harry's shirt, the other stroking his own prick desperately, his arse split open by Harry's thick length. Harry feels Draco's entire body clench around him as Draco's spine arches and Draco shouts a rough, broken, triumphant cry. They fall together against the slick table, the wood cool against their heated skin, spunk smeared across Harry's shirt, over the thin lace of Draco's dress. 

"Fuck," Draco says in a soft huff, and Harry laughs against Draco's throat, pressing his mouth to the sharp angle of Draco's jaw. 

"I'd have to agree," Harry says. Draco cards his fingers limply through Harry's hair; Harry can hear the heavy thud of Draco's heart through his chest, the ragged edges of Draco's breaths. He raises his head. "You all right?"

"Never better," Draco murmurs, and he turns his head, catches Harry's mouth with his. "Merlin but you're a brilliant fuck. You know this, yes?"

Harry laughs against Draco's lips. "So I've been told by a hot blond a time or two."

Draco nips Harry's jaw, slides his hand across Harry's shoulders. "This blond ought to know." He rubs his fingertips over Harry's shoulder blades, smoothing Harry's shirt across his skin. "Think you could get me upstairs? It's just I think you've fucked me into a Jelly-Legs Jinx."

"Is that what this is?" Harry smiles down at Draco. "I think you're just lazy. Besides, I'm injured, remember?"

"You took your potions this morning," Draco says. He looks up at Harry, a frown on his face. "Or did you lie to me?"

Harry rolls his shoulder forward. It barely aches tonight. "I took them. And the ones this evening too, before the party."

Draco just scowls up at him, a distrustful look on his face. "Liar."

"I'm not lying," Harry says. He raises an eyebrow. "You're going to make me carry you, just to prove it, aren't you?"

That earns him a sly smile. Fuck but Harry loves this wily Slytherin of his. Draco pleats the front of Harry's shirt. "I don't want to walk."

Harry huffs another laugh. "Lazy, like I said." But he holds Draco, gently helping him wrap his legs around Harry's hips, then lifting him to carry him upstairs. His shoulder only protests a bit. Draco's clutching the lube in one fist, his body limp and sated against Harry's.

Harry can feel his prick swelling against Draco again, or maybe it never really went down from his orgasm? He's not entirely sure, but he likes the way it swells with each step he takes, carrying his boyfriend up to their bed.

"Do you like your birthday present?" Draco asks, nipping at Harry's earlobe as they crest the second floor stairs. The house creaks and shifts around them, the lamps going off in the rooms below, their bedroom door swinging open, golden light spilling out into the hallway.

"I adore my present," Harry says, still somewhat amazed by his luck. "I hope to spend every birthday like this." He pauses, then says. "With you."

The look Draco gives him is hot and bright. "That could be arranged," he says lightly. "If you'd like."

Harry's certain he would. Very much so in fact. 

And as he carries Draco into their bedroom, the scent of roses grows stronger. Bloody house, Harry thinks fondly. He looks down at Draco. "Up for another round?" he asks, and Draco smiles. 

"Only if you help me get out of this dress," he murmurs as Harry drops him onto the bed. 

Harry lets his gaze drift down Draco's body. He looks rumpled. Debauched. Utterly divine. 

"Keep the pearls on then," Harry says, reaching for the hem of the dress. "You look fucking lush in them." He lets his hands slide down to the stockings, fingertips dipping beneath the edges. "These too, my little posh totty."

Draco laughs and spreads his legs wider. "Whatever you like." He hooks a foot behind Harry's arse and pulls him closer. "But I want you starkers, Potter. Starkers and hard and fucking me in our bloody bed." He reaches up, smoothes his hands over Harry's chest. "You're my perfect present," he murmurs, and Harry pushes him backwards, pressing him into the mattress.

Not a bad birthday, Harry thinks, as the bedroom door drifts shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe to this fic for chapter updates, or you can subscribe for series updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com).
> 
> I know I don't need to remind you all that the chapters will be shorter and more numerous this fall! :D This is the fourth of fourteen. The next chapter should be up on Sunday, September 24th.


	5. SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT : NEXT CHAPTER ON 10/8

This is NOE posting from Femme's account. Femme suffered a concussion and is off of computer screens and reading per doctor's advice. I've had to sit on her to keep her from writing since her accident, but she needs to recover. Special Branch will be back on Sunday, 10/8, assuming all goes well this week. Sorry for the delay, but we're hoping that a little bit of recovery time now will pay off in the future, i.e. if she rests now she'll be able to keep writing later this week. Many thanks for your indulgence and please send her your good thoughts! <3 Noe


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco visits Azkaban, Althea revisits the past, and Harry hears something suspicious. (Technically, this is chapter five, but I don't want to delete the comments from the announcement post, so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my dear readers, I have missed you and the Special Branch SO MUCH!!!! In case you haven't been following tumblr or the updates here, I had a pretty bad concussion and am on limited screen time still, most of which has to go towards my job, dammit. (Brains are precious, my dears--keep yours safe!)
> 
> I completed this installment with some dictation and some typing as I got better. I'm still going to be slow as I heal, so Special Branch will be out every OTHER week for the time being, to give my addled brain a bit more rest and recovery time. Writing and editing have to be done in much smaller chunks and with more rest breaks right now; I've even had to shorten this chapter from what I'd originally intended it to be, woe. Still, I hope this will give you all more time for your theories about what might be happening next! :D
> 
> As always, I love reading your comments--they mean the absolute world! Thank you all so much for your well wishes and kind thoughts during the concussion break. They very much helped me heal. Extra thanks to nerdherderette for all of the wisdom and advice! Huge shout-outs to sassy-cissa and noeon for keeping me sane while I couldn't look at a screen (the agony!), for harassing me so I would rest, and for generally being my guiding lights. You are both amazing, and I appreciate everything you've done to get this story back on track. <3<3<3

Draco's uncomfortable in his Unspeakable kit. The collar of the jacket feels a bit too tight, the shoulders a bit too wide. He'd thought himself a bloody fool in it this morning, looking at himself in the mirror, his face pale, his hair almost colourless above the unbroken line of summer-weight black wool. Even the two stripes on the sleeve indicating his status as a second-rank Unspeakable are black, albeit a shinier, more textured slash against the fitted jacket arms.

He hadn't wanted to wear it, but Muriel Burke had owled at half-six when he was still lying in bed, curled drowsily up against a still sleeping Harry, and informed him that she expected him to be in uniform for the Azkaban visit.

To be honest, Draco had nearly forgotten that. Most of his focus yesterday had been on Harry, on making him happy, on showing Harry how much he means to Draco. He'd done his best to push aside the anxieties of work and the still-rawness of his grief for the night, letting Harry take him over and over again until they were both trembling and gasping, the sheets twisted beneath them, damp from sweat and spunk. His arse is still sore this morning, and he's moving a bit carefully as he and Burke land solidly on the cold cliffside in front of the dark, grim towers of Azkaban. 

Draco's been awake since just after five. It been a dream that had pulled Draco abruptly from his sleep, a dream he hadn't wanted to have, one that had left him breathless and shaking, his heart pounding. He still doesn't want to think about it, not really. It's not that it's surprising. Draco's been having bad dreams of one sort or another since his father died. Still, this one had been worse than most, a twisted, illogical montage of moments from those years with the Dark Lord mixed in with images of Harry. Not the Harry of his childhood, but the Harry of now, tall and broad shouldered, with those bright green eyes that Draco's certain can see right through him. The image that had woken him, however, had been one of Harry falling in a burst of green light, Rodolphus Lestrange standing behind him, his wand raised, his laughter mingling with that of the Dark Lord, moving from the shadows to stand over Harry's limp body. And in the Dark Lord had looked at Draco, those horrible red eyes gleaming, and said, his voice soft and frighteningly triumphant, "Thank you, boy, for bringing him to me at last."

And those words still echo in Draco's ears, still make his heart skip a beat in unease. He’d lain in bed beside Harry for a good half hour, his mind twisting, roiling fearfully, the image of Harry sprawled lifeless in front of him taking over his thoughts each time he closed his eyes. Draco had felt the panic rise up in him, had fought it off, but he could still feel the lingering sickness in his stomach, the metallic taste of fear in the back of his throat at the thought of Harry being hurt or worse, killed, because of Draco. It had only been when Draco had pressed himself against Harry's side, his head on Harry's chest, Harry's steady heartbeat a quiet, comforting thump in his ear, that Draco's breath had evened, the constriction in his throat loosening. Draco doesn't want to think about what that means, about how intertwined his and Harry's lives already are, but he knows that he couldn't bear to lose Harry. Not right now. Not in that way.

"All right there, sprog?" Burke gives him a curious, sharp look, and Draco wonders how much she can read off of him. He knows she's seen glimpses of Harry in his mind, as much as he's tried to keep those thoughts hidden away from her. Still, Burke's never said anything about it, not really, and she's always given him that extra second or two to press his Occlumens back into place. "You look a little green around the edges."

Draco shakes his head, trying to clear it. He still feels a bit fuzzy from lack of sleep, a bit nauseous from his panic. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself as he looks up at the tall, dark towers in front of them. He doesn't like Azkaban; he never has, not from the first time he'd come here this summer after his fifth year to see his father. "It's just this place," he says. "Bloody awful and grim, if you ask me."

Burke sighs. Her mouth tightens a bit, and she folds her arms across her chest. "Used to be worse than this," she says. "You should have seen it when Harold Minchum was Minister. He's the one what brought in more Dementors, you know." She glances over at Draco. "Always wondered where he got them from."

That makes Draco curious as well. "When was he Minister?"

It takes Burke a moment to reply; she's frowning as they move towards the tall, arched iron gate, their shiny boots splashing in puddles of seawater caught in the dips and ridges of the rocky cliff. "Right before you were born, I'd say. Late Seventies. Bit of a shit Our Harold was, but then he'd have to be, wouldn't he, to keep up with that wanker of a Muggle PM." She shakes her head. "You wouldn't have liked him. None of us did, really, but it was a different time, and we were all so bloody fucking scared." Burke's face is pale, her mouth set, and she stops beside the smaller, less imposing staff entrance, taps her wand against the flat metal plate set into the matte black stone. The crisp, cold wind off the North Sea ruffles her hair, bites through the thin wool of Draco's jacket. "And frightened people do whatever they can," Burke says, "whenever they're facing down someone as sodding mad as Voldemort, whether or not it's the best for society as a whole." She gives Draco a long, even look, and he can't hide his flinch at her use of the Dark Lord's name. Burke's faint smile is grim. "But I'd say you know something about that, sprog, now don't you?"

The door opens with a creak before Draco can answer, and he's not half glad.

When they walk into the courtyard, Durant is there, along with Blaise's grandfather. Barachiel Dee looks tired, unhappy. He leans on his cane as if his hip is hurting him, and for the first time, Draco realises how old and worn out the man is. Whatever's going on here in Azkaban, it's affecting Dee, Draco thinks. His cheeks are gaunt, his shoulders hunched, and his mouth is a tight twist across his dark face.

"You're late," Dee says, and Draco tries not to take offence at the sharpness of his tone or the inaccuracy of his accusation.

Burke just shrugs. "Got here as soon as the Portkey activated." Her glance is sharp and quick, and Draco certain she’s sizing up Dee as well. Judging by the furrow between her brows, Draco doesn't think she's happy with the way Dee is looking either. Burke turns to Durant. "What do you lot have for us today?"

Durant's not looking at Draco. To be honest he's not looking at any of them; he squints across the courtyard, tall and broad shouldered and oh so very American in his dark blue wool suit and red silk tie. "Just waiting for Shah right now."

"Of course," Burke says, but she's studying Durant with those bright, curious eyes of hers. Draco can't help but wonder what she might be picking up from Durant, particularly when Durant frowns at her, his eyes narrowing. Burke just smiles and glances away, her shoulders squared beneath the dark wool of her Unspeakable jacket.

And then the main doors of the prison are swinging open and Shah’s there, gesturing for them to come in.

Draco hides his flinch as he steps into the foyer. Azkaban has always made him uncomfortable; it's worse now that his Legilimens is sharper. He can feel the centuries of despair and desolation seeping from the very stones of the walls around him, cold, grim, unrelenting. Burke's hand settles on his shoulder.

"Use your Occlumens," she says. "It'll help."

All Draco can do is nod. The emotions are almost overwhelming, twisting around him, tugging at the edges of his mind, seeping into his own troubled thoughts. He takes a deep breath and pushes his Occlumens back into place. It's a relief when the riotous swirl of sadness settles back into the quiet familiarity of his own worry and grief. He glances over at Burke. "Thanks."

The smile Burke gives him his thin and tight. "It's harder for folk like us to come into Azkaban," she says. "You'll need to make sure you keep your Occlumens up the entire time we’re here. You're still learning, sprog. If nothing else, this is damned good practice in bleeding off feelings from outside of you." She frowns, runs her hand through her short silver hair, pushing it back from her pale forehead. "There's been more than one good Legilimens sent over to the Thickey ward for failing to learn that."

Really, Draco thinks, that's not exactly comforting.

Dee's cane taps loudly against the stone floor as he limps into the prison, Durant at his side. The two Hit Wizards at the guard desk are watching him warily, Draco notices, and he wonders what exactly Blaise’s grandfather has done to put them on their back foot. Dee glances their way, a small, tight smile on his face, and both Hit Wizards glance away. Quickly. Dee snorts softly, then turns towards Shah. "And how are our Dementors this morning, Sergeant?"

A sharp, wistful twinge goes through Draco at the title. He’d worked hard to be a sergeant himself, and he’s not certain he’s happy to have given it up, even for an Unspeakable’s pay rise.

Shah doesn't look particularly delighted himself. "Fucking spooky bastards are in a bit of a strop. I'd say it's well bad, but that's every day, now, yeah?" He glances over his shoulder as another man steps out from the guard room. He's tall and dark-haired, dressed neatly and precisely in a black suit and pale blue tie. He's attractive, if you like that sort of thing, and Draco does. But in his defence, even Burke is giving this man an appreciative glance.

"Tomás," Durant says warmly, and he steps forward, his hand outstretched. "Glad to see you back."

"You're the first one around here to say that," the man says with a wry smile as he shakes Durant's hand. There's a Spanish tinge to his accent. He looks over at Draco and Burke. "Tomás Furtado da Luz, at your service. Please, call me Tomás."

Burke just nods at him. "Burke and Malfoy," she says, a bit curtly, and Draco knows that's an Unspeakable tactic. He's learned that much at least in the past week. "You're from Luxembourg."

"Brussels, actually, by way of Madrid. I'm with the Courts of Justice." Tomás’ mouth quirks up at one corner as Burke snorts. He glances over at Durant. "And there it is, that bit of suspicion once one discovers whom I work for."

"Healthy, I'd say," Burke says, but her shoulders relax a bit. "All things considered."

"I'm here as an observer only." Tomás shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers. The look he gives them is apologetic. "Mr Dee has had to suffer my company more than once in recent weeks, I'm terribly afraid."

He's charming, Draco will grant him that, which is precisely why Draco doesn't trust him in the slightest. Draco's rather certain he's not alone in that, given the way Burke is studying Tomás. Draco tries to let his Legilimens slide lightly across Tomás’ mind, but he doesn't pick up anything more than a bit of amusement, tinged with a touch of sympathy.

"Sorry," Tomás says to him with a shrug of the shoulders and a small smile. "Everyone in Legal received a bit of Occlumens training, didn't they, Jake?"

Draco's face warms as Durant glances over at him and says, "Well, I did do my best." Durant looks back at Shah. "Should we check our wands?" he asks, unbuttoning his jacket and reaching for his shoulder holster. 

Before Shah can answer, Tomás says, "Saul Croaker's had you all cleared in advance." There's a bit of tension between him and Shah, Draco thinks. Tomás lets his smile widen just a smidge, and it's enough to make Draco want to hex his bollocks off. "The ICW doesn't see you as a threat."

And isn't that a cautiously placed slap in the face. Even Durant seems rather taken aback, and, in the ensuing silence, Tomás' smile slips just enough to highlight the gulf that's widening between the British Ministry and their Luxembourgian counterparts. Draco glances away. He doesn't want to get involved in the politics of it all. It won't do him any good. He's well aware of that. 

Shah clears his throat. "Would you lot like to go in now?" he asks. He looks uncomfortable; Barachiel Dee, on the other hand, is scowling at all of them, his fingers tight around the head of his cane.

"I think that might be a good idea," Burke says, her voice quiet. The look she gives Draco is unhappy at best. _Enough, sprog,_ Draco hears in his head. _Leave the solicitor's head alone. Or at least don't be so bloody goddamned obvious about it all._

Draco just looks away, trying to hide his embarrassment, only to see Durant watching him inscrutably. Draco just lifts his chin, meets Durant's gaze. He knows better than to try his Legilimency skills on Durant, but he refuses to let the other man cow him. Durant looks away first, his arms folded across his chest, a faint flush rising on his cheeks.

What a ragtag little band they are, Draco thinks, as he follows Shah and Tomás deeper into the belly of Azkaban, the sounds of their booted footsteps swallowed by the thick shadows oozing from the prison walls. The dark, narrow passageways twist and turn on each other, pulling them deeper into the fortress prison, and Draco’s sense of direction is entirely fucked by the time Shah stops in front of a tall wooden door, pulling a set of blackened, ancient skeleton keys from his pocket.

Shah looks back at them, his face uneasy. "Never gets easier, right," he says as he fumbles through the keys, the clank of metal against metal echoing through the silent hallway. Draco can almost feel it here, that cold seep of unhappiness across his skin, its tendrils twisting through his mind, almost taking away his breath.

And then Burke pinches Draco, a burst of unexpected pain in his upper arm, and Draco winces, pulling away. "Watch your bloody Occlumens," she says, scowling at him. "Don't let it get to you, remember?"

Draco just nods, and he rubs his palm against his still aching arm. "Fine, you mad old bint," he says, and Burke rolls her eyes. Still, Draco settles his Occlumens back in place, barricading his mind from the swirl of misery that curls up around him. He glances over at Durant and Dee; they're both calm, their faces set. At least Tomás looks a bit nervous as well, Draco thinks. But then again, Draco can tell the ICW solicitor doesn't have a strong Occlumens. It's adequate, as far as Draco can tell with his burgeoning Legilimency, but it's not enough to block all of the centuries of unhappiness this damned place is steeped in. Draco catches the shift of Durant's eyes towards him, and he looks away first, draws in a deep, unsteady breath. All he can think of is the last time he was here in Azkaban like this, with Harry by his side, back in May. He can still see Theodore Burnham slumped against the wall, his guard robe askew, his face slack, his last breath slipping from his lips into the cold, empty darkness beneath a Dementor's hood.

A shudder goes through Draco, one he can't suppress. He tries to hide it, tries to keep his hands clenched at his side instead of folding his arms across his chest. But Barachiel Dee just looks over at him with those tawny eyes of his, and Draco knows he sees past Draco's bravado. Dee doesn't say anything; he just watches Draco with a curious expression on his face, and Draco turns back to Burke as Shah twists the stubborn lock open, metal shrieking in the silence of the corridor. 

The door swings open. Shah leads them down another hallway, this one so narrow they can only go down it single file. Shah has his wand out, his Lumos reflecting off the damp stone walls, so roughly hewn that the arm of Draco's jacket snags against it at one point. Draco doesn't like closed, confined spaces. They make him tense, make that swell of anxiety rise in him again, bitter and metallic in the back of his throat. He forces it back down, tells himself to breathe as he follows Burke down the corridor, his gaze fixed on her narrow, sloped shoulders. He realises, with a small jolt of surprise, that he trusts Muriel Burke. Not entirely. But enough. Draco's glad to have her with him on this assignment, at least, and that means a hell of a lot in his book. 

Draco hears a faint humming noise as they turn the corner, and there's a pale bluish light glowing from a small open doorway. Draco has to duck his head to go through, and when he stands up straight again, his breath catches at the sight of the wall across from him, a swirling screen of spellwork in blue and green and grey that stretches from floor to ceiling, the colours twisting and spiraling across the wall, almost as if they're alive. 

And they are, in a way, Draco realises, particularly when Durant leans over Draco's shoulder and murmurs, "It's a Spirit Screen."

"Those actually exist?" Draco watches the colours spin and spread across the wall in small, slow pulses. He's read about them before, but he's never seen one in action. Then again, when would he ever have had a chance? This is old-fashioned necromancy, Victorian at least, if not earlier. He wants to reach out and touch it; he doesn't dare. 

"Haven't seen one of these since Minchum's Ministry," Burke says. She's standing beside him, and the colours glow and ripple across her pale skin, her silvery hair. "I'd heard they'd pulled one out of the archives for this." She looks over at Shah. "The Dementors broke through the screen during their escape?" She frowns. "It's too stable."

Shah rubs the back of his neck. "Wouldn't say they broke through." He's silent for a moment, then he glances at Tomás and sighs. "It went offline for a moment. We don't know how yet--we haven't figured it out."

"I was inside," Dee says quietly. "The screen faltered; a handful of Dementors took the chance to push through, despite my best attempts to control them." He's looking at the screen, and his face is stony. Sober. "It wasn't all of them. Some tried to stop the rogue Dementors from attacking me." He exhales, and his fingers tighten around the head of his cane. "They obviously failed."

Draco studies Blaise's grandfather. Even though he looks less commanding at the moment than the first time Draco'd met him, his shoulders are still squared, his back rigid, and Draco understands where Blaise gets his bloody-minded determination from. "How," Draco asks, "did you control all those Dementors in there by yourself?" That's been bothering Draco since he'd first heard about it, if he's honest, niggling at the back of his Auror mind. They can force him into the Unspeakables, he thinks, but they can't make him stop thinking like an Auror. He doesn't give a fuck how they try.

Barachiel Dee glances over at him, one eyebrow raised. "One can draw on the magic imbued within Azkaban," he says after a moment. "The elemental forces that Ekrizdis left in the walls of his fortress here. It's not something one would wish to do for long, or in perpetuity, but it's a raw power that can be harnessed to keep these poor damned souls at bay." His gaze drifts over to Shah and then to Tomás. "For now at least."

"It'll fucking kill you at some point, you old bastard," Durant says. He's watching Dee, and Draco thinks he catches a modicum of concern.

Dee just smiles once more. "Most likely, Legilimens." He looks over at Shah. "Sergeant, if you will? I'm tired, and I'd rather like to get on with this visit." Draco turns his head just in time to see Shah pull out a small compass from his pocket. 

"If you could tap your wands to this, it'll help you pass through the screen," Shah says, and they all comply, with the exception of Barachiel Dee. 

Draco gives him a curious look, and Dee leans on his cane, the light from the Spirit Screen flickering shadows across the brown planes of his face. "I'll have no trouble passing through. The screen knows me by now, Mr Malfoy." He nods towards the wall. "As do the Dementors you'll encounter."

"And they don't seem to be all that keen on you," Draco says before he thinks, but Dee's smile just widens. 

"Some of them, no." Dee looks over at the screen, and he sighs. "Then again, spirits aren't always the most logical creatures, are they? Particularly not when they're frightened." He looks almost unhappy at that, and he shakes his head. "And they've been rather unsettled these past few weeks." He glances over at Draco. "Let go of your fear, boy. It won't serve you well in there. You won't see them as they are. Not like Durant and I do. But you'll feel them. If you move past your own emotions, perhaps you might feel theirs instead."

Draco's not so certain he wants to, but he nods and takes a deep breath. He feels Burke's hand brush against his, and for a moment he thinks it must have been nothing, but then she's looking at him, studying his face, and he can feel the light press of her mind against his. 

_All right, sprog?_

He nods again. It must be enough because she turns away and says to Shah, "Well. Let's go in then."

Dee's the first one to go through, touching the tip of his cane against the screen. It ripples, and then he steps through. Durant follows, his wand lightly tapping across the swirling colours before they envelop him. 

And then it's Draco's turn. He doesn't want to. He wants to turn around and walk down that corridor again, as fast as he can. His whole body's thrumming with fear; he's not certain he can do this, not certain he can force himself to press his wand against that mesmerising coil of blue-green-grey. 

Somehow he manages to. 

He steps into a cold courtyard, wide and circular, iron bars rising up along the walls, arching overhead to form what feels almost like a cage, delicate and fragile for all that each bar is thick and heavy and black against the slick, frosted glass set over them. Draco takes a step down the wrought iron staircase, his palm barely skimming the freezing bannister. He can hear Burke come in behind him, hear her say something to Tomás, but then a ringing rush fills Draco's ears, and he nearly slips on the steps, his fingers gripping at the cold iron railing. He exhales; his breath is a white puff in the chilled air. His chest aches, hot and tight, and he can feel the emotions pulling at him, the despair, the anger, the sadness---

The grief. 

It brings him to his knees as he staggers off the last step, and the stones are hard and cold against his palms as he catches himself before he falls forward. His hair swings into his face, and the pain twists through him once more, raw and burning, that empty ache where thoughts of his father would be. Draco's shoulders shake; he can feel wetness against his cheeks. He doesn't care. There's nothing but a Lucius-shaped hole in him, gaping, ragged, and nothing will ever fill it again. Draco knows that, knows that he'll spend the rest of his life with that horrible gap in his psyche, and the realisation makes him cry out, press his forehead to the filthy stones of the courtyard. The rustling, dry sweep of the Dementors robes comes closer. 

Draco doesn't care.

And then there are hands on him, pulling him up, strong and wide, and Durant's voice is in his ear, murmuring something that Draco can't entirely make out, not until he hears Harry's name, and that brings Draco back, makes him look blankly at Durant. 

"If you give in," Durant's saying, "Harry won't forgive you. You know that, you asshole. Come on. Put your Occlumens back up."

Burke's on his other side, and her fingers are tight on Draco's chin, turning his face towards her. "Pull yourself together." Her voice is kind but firm, and Draco can feel himself coming back to himself, can feel the embarrassment rising inside of him. 

His voice is a rasp when he says, "I'm fine." He's not, but he needs to be, and that's enough for right now. Draco pushes himself to his feet. Dee's watching him from the centre of the courtyard, and the Dementors are behind him, a throng of hooded faces turned towards Draco. 

A shiver of fear goes through Draco at the sight. 

"They're starving," Dee says, and there's anger in his voice. He looks past Draco towards Tomás and Shah, both of whom have stayed up on the steps, close to the glittering glass wall. "You've kept them away from humans for too long; they haven't fed."

"We're not going to risk--" Tomás breaks off at the vicious look Dee gives him. 

"You fools." Dee steps forward; the Dementors move with him. He holds out a hand; they stay back behind him. "They feed off human emotions, and you've kept them from the prisoners for weeks now, and I haven't been able to come to them…." Dee turns towards the Dementors, murmurs something quietly in a language Draco doesn't really understand. It sounds old and formal and almost melodic to his ears. The Dementors sigh, a soft breath that seems to huff across Draco's skin, cold and sharp, and for a moment it feels as if it's pulling deep into Draco's soul, tugging at that tight coil of sorrow that's settled in his belly. It loosens a bit, wells up, and then it sinks back into Draco.

And yet it feels a bit lighter, a bit emptier. The Dementors breathe out again, and Draco can feel Durant tense beside him, then Burke, and Draco realises that Dee is pulling emotions from them, spreading them out across the hundreds of Dementors that fill the courtyard. It's not much, but it's enough, and Draco can't help but wonder if this is why Dee looks so tired and drawn, if he's been giving them little bits of himself to help keep their hunger pangs at bay. 

Some of Draco's fear bleeds away. He steps forward, haltingly, letting himself move closer towards the first row of Dementors. Dee says nothing, but Draco knows those bright golden eyes are fixed on him. Draco keeps his Occlumens up, and it takes all the courage he can scrape together, but he forces himself to look at the Dementors, to push out with his Legilimency enough to feel what's behind those hoods. 

It's not much. Just flashes, here and there, of human emotions. Fear. Love. Confusion. Wistfulness. Loneliness. 

There's so much loneliness. It takes Draco's breath away. He focuses harder, can almost feel different personalities as he lets his gaze drift across the crowd of ragged black robes. "Oh," he says, his voice so quiet he can barely hear himself. 

Dee hears him though. "You understand?"

"I think so." It's not that Draco didn't realise that the Dementors had been made from human souls. But it's one thing to comprehend that fact and another thing entirely to feel it. To walk towards Dee and sense the humans that the Dementors might once have been, even if it's muffled, like hearing the screams of a drowning man through the thickness of water. 

Dee's silent. Burke and Durant move up beside Draco, the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder, each of them studying the Dementors in front of them. 

"Poor bloody bastards," Burke murmurs. "They never deserved any of this."

"Most of them, no," Dee says after a moment. "And even those that did, well." He shakes his head, leans on his cane. "Death would have been a kinder punishment."

Draco looks over at him. "Punishment?" he asks, and Dee doesn't answer. 

"You worked for Minchum, didn't you?" Burke asks. 

Dee sighs, his gaze fixed on the Dementors in front of him. "One of my more foolish choices." He's silent for a breath or two, and then he says, almost reluctantly, "A business partner and I helped create some of these wretched creatures." He looks over at Burke finally, ignoring Draco and Durant. "Only from prisoners who agreed. They thought it better than being Kissed."

"Circe," Draco says. Burke just shakes her head and turns away, her face twisted in disgust. 

"I think I agree with that sentiment." Durant's tense next to Draco, his hands pressed into his pockets. 

Draco looks over at Dee. "They exiled you for doing their dirty work?"

"Not quite." Dee won't look at him. "But my relationship with the Ministry has always been…" He hesitates, then says, "Complicated." A muscle in his jaw twitches. "They exiled me for acting outside of their wishes, but that's a story for another day." He glances over at Draco finally. "It's not one I wish to relive at the moment."

Draco doesn't know what to say other than, "All right." He looks back at the Dementors, a twist of fear going through him at the realisation that they could, if they wished, overpower all of them. Kiss them, even. Burnham's face flashes into his mind again, and he feels the roil of panic in his stomach. 

"Steady," Durant says.

For a moment, Draco wants to tell him to sod off, to stay the fuck out of his head, but the Dementors' hoods turn towards him again, and he knows they can taste his anger. He tries to settle himself. 

"So we're here to keep these half-ghosts from going mad?" Burke folds her arms across her chest. 

"From starving themselves into madness, yes." Dee reaches out, lets his hand settle on the fluttering sleeve of one bony Dementor's arm. The Dementor's shoulders sink a bit, and Draco almost thinks he feels a wave of relief coming from beneath that bent hood. "Whilst the legislators argue about what to do with them." His voice grows cold. "I'd rather the side angling for their destruction not win out, to be honest. Our track record as wizards for respecting other magical creatures hasn't been stellar, particularly in regards to creatures formed from Death magic." He lets his hand fall from the Dementor's sleeve, steps forward. The Dementors shift, moving to let him in amongst them. Dee's cane taps lightly against the courtyard stones. 

Durant follows him; the Dementors widen their half-circle. "You can't really blame people for that," he says mildly. "Fear of death's healthy."

"To a certain extent." Dee glances back at Durant, and Draco suspects they've had this argument before. Dee looks rather pleased with himself. "But dying is a natural process and a powerful magical force. One we set ourselves at odds with far too quickly."

"Spoken like a true necromancer," Durant says, but he's smiling at Dee. Draco has the distinct impression that Blaise's grandfather likes Jake Durant. A hell of a lot more than he likes Draco, and that bloody well irritates Draco. 

Immensely.

"So we're nourishment for this lot, are we?" Burke says, a bit too sharply, and Dee stills, pivoting towards her. 

"If you wish them not to riot, then yes." Dee scowls at her. "They need sustenance, just as any living creature does."

Burke just frowns back at him. "They're barely alive."

"Perhaps by your standards," Dee says. "But they are living, Unspeakable Burke, and as such are still protected by British wizarding law." His scowl deepens as he glances back towards the steps Shah and Tomás are standing on. "For now at least."

"I don't like the idea of these things dining off me," Burke says, and she's eyeing the half-circle of tattered robes stretching out in front of them, a sea of dark hoods that fills half the courtyard, all the way to the other side of the cage. Through the dirty glass curving over the iron bars, Draco can make out the dark stone walls of the prison rising up around them, the cloudy grey of the sky above. He thinks he sees the steady rise and fall of the Dementors shoulders, breathing together, a soft, slow sigh that sounds like the whisper of dry grass in an autumn breeze, the quiet rustle of dead leaves beneath a boot. 

Draco tries not to flinch, tries not to remember the way the Dementors had moved through the corridors at Hogwarts during his third year. He'd been frightened of them even then, too young to understand them, but old enough to feel their misery. It'd been worse in the war. The Dark Lord had brought them into the Manor more than once, and Draco had hidden himself away in his room, doing everything he could not to encounter them in the hallway. 

A memory of himself in fake Dementor's robe, hovering beside Greg and Vince and Marcus Flint on the edge of the Quidditch pitch, rises up, along with a wash of shame. Circe, what an arse he'd been, Draco thinks. He's no bloody idea why Harry's even forgiven him for being a tit like that, for making him fall from a broom for what? A childhood prank drawn from the lingering hurt of a boy's rejection? Merlin, how stupid and prideful he'd been. Draco looks away, his chest tightening, his skin prickling. He wants to run from this room, wants to get as far away from Azkaban as he possibly can. It could have been him here, he knows that. Trapped within these walls, caught with these creatures eating away his soul bit by bit. 

His life might have been so very different. 

"Malfoy," Durant says quietly, and Draco looks over at him. Durant meets Draco's gaze evenly. "You'll be fine here."

Draco wants to say he knows that, wants to snap something at Durant, wants to preen himself like one of the Manor peacocks, to intimidate Durant, to push him away. But he can't. Instead he just nods, rubs his damp hands across his jacket. "All right," he says, and his voice only wobbles the slightest bit. 

The image of Durant on his knees slips through Draco's mind. The surroundings are the same, and he can feel the fear and the misery that make Durant's hands tremble. It's almost overwhelming, that memory sliding up against his Occlumens, seeping in through the cracks until Draco shoves it away, gasping with the intensity of it all. 

_You're not alone,_ Durant whispers faintly in the recesses of Draco's mind, and Draco looks over at him, his mouth tight. 

And then Draco lets the fight go out of him, lets himself accept the reassurance. He exhales. "Thank you."

"The first time's always the worst," Durant says. "That's what Barachiel told me."

"Not incorrect," Dee says, and Burke snorts from Draco's other side. Dee ignores her, gestures for Draco to come closer. The Dementors fall back a bit as Draco does. Dee studies Draco's face. "Perhaps I was wrong about you," he murmurs.

That makes Draco uneasy. "What does that mean?"

Dee just shakes his head, but he reaches out with one gnarled, if perfectly manicured hand and touches Draco's cheek. His fingers are soft. Warm. Draco can't look away from Dee's golden gaze; he feels caught, like a small prey in the sightline of a much stronger predator. Draco swallows, senses the movement of the Dementors around them, drawing closer. 

"Careful," Durant says, his voice soft, filled with warning, and Draco catches a glimpse of Durant's drawn wand out of the corner of his eye. "Barachiel, they're coming."

"There's something about you," Dee says, and then he drops his hand, and the moment shifts, the Dementors withdraw. Draco's body relaxes, but only slightly. Dee gives him a tight, quick smile. "You're an interesting one, Unspeakable Malfoy. Perhaps even more so than our Legilimens over here."

"I rather doubt that," Draco says, but he steps back, away from Dee. Blaise's grandfather's unsettled him, made him feel on his back foot, which Draco hates. He looks back over at Shah and Tomás. Shah's forehead is furrowed with worry, and the glance he gives Dee is hesitant, uncertain. Tomás just looks at Draco, appraising, steady. 

That unnerves Draco more than Dee ever could. 

Draco turns to Burke. "We've work to do here, don't we?" At her nod, he steels himself. "Then let's get to it." He looks over at Dee, standing beside a pensive Durant. "What exactly is it you want from us, sir?"

And Dee just smiles.

***

Althea sits across from Antonin Dolohov, silently watching him. He looks worse for wear, she thinks, in the five days since she's seen him last. She's alone with him; Granger's just stepped out of the interview room for a moment, called away by a knock on the door and whispered conversation with someone just outside. Althea thinks it might have been the guv.

They haven't suspended the interview although Granger's in the hall. It seems the Unspeakables can bend that particular rule. Not bog-standard Auror practice, she thinks grimly, not at all.

Dolohov looks over at her. "They're using you, girl," he says, and there's a raw rasp to his voice that wasn't there before, along with a bruise that extends along the side of his narrow, angular face. Officially he'd had a run-in with a faulty door charm; Althea's heard the rumours though, that one of the Unspeakables had slammed Dolohov into the door of his cell last night, over and over and over again. Granger wouldn't confirm it, but the way her eyes had slid to one side, the way her mouth had turned down in frustration when Althea had asked had told Althea everything she needed to know. She hopes the Unspeakable's being disciplined. Not even a bastard like Antonin Dolohov deserves that sort of treatment. Especially in the current climate, with questions of prisoner endangerment already swirling around, and the ICW peering over the Ministry's shoulder.

Still, Althea thinks she could understand the urge to hurt Dolohov. He's a sodding manipulative bastard on the best of days. 

"And so says the man who's being charged with what?" Althea folds her arms across the tabletop and leans forward. "Grievous bodily harm on Constable Blaise Zabini, the murder of Luka Abadzhiev, and the murder of Richard Thomas?" She raises an eyebrow. "Your own cousin. What a shit you are."

Dolohov's mouth twists up on one side. "You ought to know about cousin murders. It's just part of being family, really."

Fuck if Althea'll let this bastard see the way that stung. She just looks at him. "I assume you're referring to my mother."

"The Yaxleys never have been particularly close," Dolohov says. He leans back in his chair, and Althea knows he's toying with her. Probably more out of boredom than anything. The Unspeakables have Dolohov in solitary, for the most part. Not even a book or a wireless allowed in the room with him. If he wasn't such a fucking prick, Althea might feel a modicum of pity for him. She doesn't in the slightest. Dolohov studies her, then says, "Plenty of secrets buried in your mother's family tree."

"Yours, too, I'm certain." Althea doesn't enjoy games like this. She's too damned Ravenclaw for it. 

Dolohov smiles again, and she knows he thinks he's scored one on her. "Not talking about mine. Besides, the Dolohovs are boring. Old and staid and if they had the chance to bring the Tsar back from the dead, they would." Dolohov's nostrils flare. "Idiots."

"I take it you don't care for mum and dad." Althea rubs a thumb over a ridge in the table. Part of her thinks that Granger left her in here alone to see what might happen. It wouldn't surprise her if Granger was on the other side of the mirrored glass to her left, just watching. Waiting to see what Althea might do.

Dolohov laughs, and it's a sharp, bitter echo in the room. "Trying to connect with me now, girl? Hope that I'll crack beneath your pathetic wiles and tell you how terrible my upbringing was and how it's scarred me for life?"

Althea shrugs. "You could, but I'd think you a giant, lying wanker." 

They both fall silent, eyeing each other from across the table.

"You know we're going to put you away," Althea says after a moment. "The murder charges against Abadzhiev are going to stick, as are the racketeering and arms dealing. We caught you red-handed in Eustace Fawley's warehouse, and Our Eustace is talking, old man, so it's only a matter of time--"

Dolohov snorts, shifts in his chair. His hands are bound to the table with an Incarcerous; he pushes his palms against the smooth, dark wood. "I won't be in here that long."

Althea watches him. "You sound certain of that."

"Maybe I am." Dolohov's eyes are bright and sharp, but there's a heat in them that makes Althea uncomfortable. The man's half mental, she thinks, but then, he'd have to be to do the things he's done, wouldn't he? No one sane would have followed the Dark Lord as blindly and rabidly as Antonin Dolohov had done. Not even Lucius Malfoy was that much a believer from what she's gathered. 

"You think the Old Man's going to get you out of here?" Althea asks, her voice soft in the silence of the room. "Because Aldric Yaxley hasn't any fucking pull on this side of the pond--"

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, bitch." Spittle flies from Dolohov's lips, shining in the warm light from the lamps hanging above the table. 

Althea pauses, tilts her head ever so slightly. "Really?" She thinks he's lying, trying to throw his weight around, but she's not certain. There's something about the way his eyes narrow at her that makes Althea wonder. "Do tell."

Dolohov looks away, pressing his thin lips together. The bruise on his face looks purple-yellow in the lamplight, his eye swollen and puffy, the skin scabbed over at the corner. There's another mark on his throat where the edge of the door had pressed against his windpipe, nearly strangling him in the process. Althea wonders who the Unspeakable was who'd done this to the bastard. No one's mentioned names so far, not directly at least, but Althea suspects Phoebe Rayne's brother, who's also an Unspeakable. If so, she can hardly blame the poor sod. She might have done it herself. 

"Come on, Antonin," Althea says, keeping her voice light, pushing away thoughts of violence. Still, she can't help but press a bit deeper. "You can't drop that little bombshell without backing it up. Wouldn't want anyone accusing you of telling porkies, yeah?"

For a moment she thinks Dolohov's going to lunge for her, and she's fucking grateful for the magical dampeners he's still wearing, tight around his wrists. She doesn't blink, doesn't let him see that flicker of fear. Althea just looks at him, keeping her face as bland and emotionless as she can, and Dolohov sinks back into his seat with a disgruntled huff. He watches her, and Althea can see the shift of emotions across his face. Anger. Disgust. Uncertainty. 

"Fuck you," Dolohov says, and his hands twitch against the tabletop, his long fingers nicotine-stained. Althea wonders how long it's been since he's had a smoke. Weeks now, she thinks, and it has to be hell for him. 

"You want a cig?" she asks, and Dolohov's eyes flick towards the mirrored wall, then back towards her. Althea leans forward, her shoulders hunched. A wisp of her hair slides out of the tight bun at the nape of her neck, falls across her cheek. She pushes it back behind her ear. "Tell me more about Aldric Yaxley and I'll make sure you have an entire pack."

Dolohov snorts. "Who's the liar now?" Still, his fingers drum lightly against the table, and for a moment, Althea thinks he might crack. Instead, he looks away, falls silent again. 

Althea doesn't push. Not yet at least. She sits patiently across from Dolohov, her gaze fixed on his face. "Does it hurt?" she asks after a moment, then she gestures towards her own face. "You must have walked into that door terribly hard."

"Yes, and so many times," Dolohov says, with almost no affect. It's almost as if he doesn't care about the pain, Althea thinks. Dolohov just looks at her. "Funny how that happens."

"But Aldric Yaxley'll make whomever it was pay, right?" Althea lets her scepticism colour her voice, and Dolohov's shoulders tense. "Why? What the fuck does he have to do with Richard Thomas or Luka Abadzhiev or anything you've been doing over here with fucking Rodolphus Lestrange?"

Dolohov doesn't answer.

Althea's starting to get annoyed. "The grandson? Is that it? Les Harkaway--"

"Please." Dolohov sounds almost offended. "That twat?"

"You know we'll find it out soon enough," Althea starts to say, but Dolohov just laughs, a sharp, angry burst that echoes against the black tiled walls. 

Dolohov leans forward. "This sort of rubbish is what got your mother killed, you idiot," he says, and then his mouth snaps shut, and he turns his head, almost as if he's surprised himself. 

Althea stills, studying him for a long moment before she says, her voice soft and vicious, "My mother was killed by you and Corban fucking Yaxley because she married a Muggle--"

"Was she." It's not a question. Dolohov's not looking at her. 

And Althea's brought up short by that. It's what she's always thought, what her father had told her as he spiralled into the bottle, certain that his wife had died because of him. "What exactly are you saying?"

Dolohov glances over at her. His face is gaunter than it'd been when they caught him in Tarrytown. She wonders if he's been eating, and then the question of whether or not the Unspeakables have been feeding the poor bastard flits through her mind. She tries to push it away, but she can't. She doesn't trust Saul Croaker not to put something like that into place to break Dolohov, although it'd be bloody stupid of him with Luxembourg watching them as closely as they are. 

But it's not really the Department of Mysteries the ICW is after, is it? The DMLE's what they're focusing on, and that makes Althea nervous. Particularly given Seven-Four-Alpha's mandate to use whatever means necessary to close their cases, or what's left of said mandate, at least. Now that they're back from New York, Althea doesn't think any of them know what they're meant to be doing. Other than finding Rodolphus Lestrange and the result of that search has been a bloody giant fuck-all right now.

"Well?" she demands, and Dolohov's smile is thin and feral and so very unsettling. He doesn't answer, and Althea's certain that he's trying to push her, to get her to react. She looks down at the open file jacket in front of her, draws in an unsteady breath as shallowly as she can so Dolohov doesn't hear her. "Fine. Let's talk about Rodolphus Lestrange then. What sort of operation was he running from Azkaban?"

"Is that what he was doing?" Dolohov asks, his voice careful, deliberately light. "I wouldn't know, given that I wasn't in Azkaban."

"No," Althea agrees, and she doesn't take her gaze off him. "You were supposed to be dead."

Dolohov raises an eyebrow, shrugs. "Misidentification happens."

Althea can't help but laugh at that. "A corpse transfigured to look like you, purportedly killed by an Auror who later died in custody and whom we know was working with Rodolphus Lestrange somehow." She leans an elbow on the table. "Who took your place, Antonin? Who died for you?"

Dolohov's silent.

"And how does Rodolphus Lestrange connect to Aldric Yaxley?" The edge of the table digs into Althea's ribcage. She barely notices. "Give me something to work with. I'll tell the Unspeakables you're helping with the case; they'll be more careful with you. Feed you, even. And I'll make sure you get a packet of cigs."

Something flickers for a moment, deep in Dolohov's eyes, and Althea knows she's right about the Unspeakables. Her stomach twists, sharp and painful. Fucking Croaker. She looks at Dolohov, every muscle in her body tight and tense. "You have to break sometime. Let me help you."

"You know what I remember about that night?" Dolohov asks, his voice soft, his gaze sweeping across Althea's face, down her body. "How charmingly your mother begged for us to spare her whilst you cowered in the corner. Such a pretty thing you were back then. So soft and trembling--"

"Stop," Althea chokes out, and her hands are shaking against the dark wood of the table. She clenches her fists, so tightly that the pale skin across her knuckles goes nearly colourless. 

Dolohov's smile widens a bit more, and Althea knows he's heard the quaver in her voice. "We thought about taking you, Corban and I. Bringing you back to His Lordship. Bella would have liked playing with you. As would we." He raises an eyebrow, flicks his tongue towards her. "In different ways."

Althea shoves her chair back. "We're done here," she says, slamming the file jacket closed, and Dolohov throws back his head and laughs.

"You needn't worry, girlie," he says with a flash of bright teeth. "I wouldn't put my prick anywhere near that cold cunt of yours now--"

For a moment, Althea's fingers tighten around the file jacket. It'd be so easy to sweep it forward, to let it strike Dolohov's bruised face. She can see it now, can see the way his body would jerk back, the Incarcerous keeping him bound to the table, can see the blood welling up from the slash of the file jacket's edge across his skin. She closes her eyes, breathes out. 

"Sod off, you fucking shit," she says, and then she turns on her heel, striding towards the door as Dolohov laughs behind her again, his bound hands clapping. 

"Well done, you," he says as Althea reaches for the doorknob. She hesitates, refuses to turn around. "But you're asking the wrong fucking questions, aren't you?"

She hates herself for it, but Althea glances back over her shoulder. "And what questions should I be asking then?"

Dolohov's eyes are cold. Sharp as a Diffindo slicing into Althea's soul. "Why your mother had to die, of course." His mouth quirks up at the corner. "And why we let that snivelling shit father of yours live."

Althea stills, her fingers curled around the doorknob. "You leave my father out of this. I know damned well you're full of shit--"

"But am I?" Dolohov leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. His voice is low. "If you don't want to play, darling, then perhaps you oughtn't fuck with me."

Their gazes meet, hold. Althea can feel Dolohov's malice rolling across the room, making her skin crawl. He hates her, she realises, and she has no bloody idea why. She exhales, doing her best not to let her shudder show. 

"Sit tight," Althea says. "Maybe Granger'll come back for you." She shrugs. "Then again, maybe she'll leave you in this room to rot. Not really certain I give a fuck one way or the other."

She slams the door behind her as she steps out into the corridor, her whole body shaking, her fingers still gripping the doorknob tightly. 

Granger looks over. She's just down the hall, standing beside the guv and a tall, brown woman with long, tightly woven braids pulled back to a knot at the nape of her neck. Nadia Daifallah, the Senior Advisor to the International Wizarding Court of Justice in Brussels. Althea's seen her around the Ministry the past few weeks, always looking a bit grim. Judging by her expression at the moment, her mood hasn't really improved.

"Everything all right?" Granger asks, and Potter glances back at Althea as well, his brow furrowing in concern.

"Whitaker?" Potter's voice is low and a bit urgent. "What'd he do?"

Althea shakes her head, inhales, calming herself. "Just his usual bollocks." She's not ready to talk about Dolohov's claims about her mother. Or his threats to her, really. It'll be on the transcript in a day or two. She'll deal with it then. She smoothes back the wisp of hair that's come loose again, tucking it behind her ear. Her hand barely trembles, but she thinks the guv's caught her out by the way his gaze goes between it and her face. _Please, don't push,_ she thinks, and somehow he must read it from her expression, because he just nods, his mouth an unhappy slash. Althea moves away from the door, towards the other three. "Is something up?"

"Nadia's telling us that Luxembourg is pushing again to move Dolohov," Granger says, and she doesn't sound pleased. 

"Because that went so well last time." Althea looks over at Daifallah. "Lestrange is still out there."

Daifallah's arms are folded across her chest. She's wearing a scarlet dress, tailored and trim, belted at her waist, the hem just skimming her knees. Her lips and fingernails are the same colour, the latter oval and talon-long in the way that only straight girls' can be. Althea runs the pad of her thumb across her own short fingernails, trimmed so they don't scrape anything too tender. And Merlin but Althea needs a good shag. Lucy had been brilliant, back in the States, but Althea hasn't wanted to go to her usual haunts now that she's back in London. Instead she's been thinking of dark hair and pale limbs tangled around her own, of red lippie smeared across swollen lips, and the scent of expensive perfume, jasmine and roses and just a hint of lime blossom. It's bad form, Althea knows, to wank whilst thinking of your colleague, but every time she tries not to, she fails. Parkinson's always there in the back of her mind, with a small smile and a flash of perfect, creamy tits. 

Althea pulls her gaze from Daifallah's hands. Circe, she really can't keep on like this.

"We've been putting secure measures into place," Daifallah's saying. "We know the dangers, but the ICW believes, as do I, that, all things considered, Antonin Dolohov is safer within the Brussels court than here." She looks at all three of them, her full, red mouth pursing slightly. "You know I'm right. We've already heard about Dolohov's most recent incident."

"The Unspeakable responsible for that is being sacked," Granger says, and that's something Althea hasn't heard yet. She glances at Granger in surprise; Granger doesn't meet her gaze. "Croaker's currently recalibrating the wards on Dolohov's cell himself, and I'm culling through the roster of Unspeakables who have contact with him--"

"Not enough." Daifallah shakes her head. "Your entire Ministry is in shambles. All of you realise this." 

Potter sighs. "She's not wrong, Hermione." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and messy. He's in shirtsleeves and blue braces, his tie loosened at his throat. 

Granger's silent; she breathes out in a soft, annoyed huff. "The ICW can fuck off," she says quietly, and she glances over at Daifallah. "Present company excepted."

Daifallah's smile is wry. "It's not that I haven't thought the same myself at times. But with Lestrange still out there--"

"We'll find him," the guv says, his voice tight, and Daifallah looks over at him. 

"You haven't yet," she says. Her face is calm. Sober. "You might not before...." She trails off. "Well."

Potter flinches, and Althea catches her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it. That's a conversation they've had in the incident room more than once. What might happen if they don't catch Lestrange before he does whatever he's broken out of Azkaban to do? And fuck if any of them can figure out what that might be. This is when Althea wishes Malfoy were back with them. He might come up with something. Lestrange is his uncle, after all. 

Daifallah glances over at Althea. "I also don't think it's legally wise to have Sergeant Whitaker interviewing Antonin Dolohov given his history with her family."

"I'm fine," Althea protests.

"And it's not you I'm concerned about." Daifallah taps a finger against her elbow. "He's been tied to your mother's murder. Any barrister worth their salt will bring that up in court."

Potter lifts his chin; Althea can tell he's about to do something stupidly stubborn. "Whitaker's one of our best--"

"I want her kept out of that room," Daifallah snaps. She turns towards Althea. "No offence, Sergeant. I'm just looking ahead to my case. The last thing I need is to have it cocked up on a technicality."

"You still don't know he'll be tried in Brussels," Granger points out. "The Wizengamot--"

"It's an international case now, Hermione." Daifallah sounds tired. As if she's had this argument before. The two women frown at each other. "Between Dolohov's actions in the States and here, not to mention his ties to the Abadzhievs and Prague--there's no way in hell the ICW is going to leave him here for prosecution."

Granger looks away first. "Merlin," she says, almost under her breath. "This isn't something we need to be arguing about in the bloody hallway."

"I concur." Daifallah shakes her head, holds her palms up. "But my hands are tied. He's coming back to Brussels. If you'd like to discuss it further--"

"My office," Granger says. She glances over at the guv. "Harry?"

Potter shoves his hands in his pockets. "Whitaker and I should head back upstairs. I have Zabini running traces on the reports we've received in the past couple of days about Lestrange's whereabouts. I think that's more important for us to be focusing on right now."

"Right." Granger nods, then turns to Daifallah. "Do you need Croaker involved in this?"

"Only if you're going to be foolishly stubborn," Daifallah says, but there's a faint quirk to her mouth that makes Althea think she's half-enjoying sparring with Granger. Althea's not so certain Granger feels the same. 

Granger heaves a sigh. "Harry, we'll talk later about that other thing." And that piques Althea's interest. She looks between Granger and the guv, but she can't read anything from their faces. She wonders if it has anything to do with Malfoy. 

"Yeah." Potter nods, and he lingers back as Granger and Daifallah head off, both of them still arguing about jurisdiction and legalities. Potter huffs softly. "I don't know why she bothers," he says after a moment. "She knows Nadia'll win this one. Croaker must be putting her up to it."

"Is Croaker also putting her up to prisoner mistreatment?" Althea asks before she can stop herself. She folds her arms, cradling her file jacket to her chest. Fuck it, she thinks, and she gives the guv a defiant look. 

Potter frowns. "What are you talking about?" 

Althea almost doesn't answer, then she glances back at the door to the interview room. Dolohov's still sitting there. If Croaker's having his holding cell refitted with security charms--and Althea's fucking certain some of that is for the Unspeakable's own benefit, not out of any sense of duty to their prisoner--then Dolohov will be cooling his heels there for a while. She chews on her lip, then says, "I think they're withholding food."

"What?" Potter follows her look back to the interview room. "They wouldn't--"

"Lucy told me the Americans were doing it," Althea says. "In their extrajudicial prisons. Not for long, but they use it as a tactic to…" She hesitates, then rubs a hand over her cheek, her stomach twisting with unease. "It breaks prisoners faster. Starving them, then giving them food as a reward for information."

Potter's eyeing her. "We wouldn't do that."

"He's lost weight," Althea says. She keeps her voice low, quiet enough to avoid the listening charms she's certain Saul Croaker's put on this hallway. She doesn't trust anyone with this information except the guv. He'll do the right thing, she thinks. "Enough to be noticeable in the past week."

The guv's face is troubled. "You're sure."

"Call it a hunch," Althea says. "Granger has to know."

"Hermione wouldn't stand for that sort of thing," Potter says, but Althea's not so certain. She likes Granger, but she's an Unspeakable, after all. Althea doesn't consider them the most trustworthy lot. 

Still, she's not going to argue with the guv. "Maybe," she says, and she tries to keep her voice neutral. From the look Potter gives her, she's not certain she's managed. "You'll look into it?"

"Yeah," the guv says, and she knows he means it. "I will."

And that, Althea thinks, is the best she can hope for. She follows Potter down the black tiled hallway towards the Unspeakable guard standing beside the heavy double-doors at the end. Potter stops, looks back towards the interview room. 

"Dolohov helped kill your mother," the guv says quietly. 

Althea knows what he's asking. She just looks over at him. "He's still a human being, and we're better than that. Whatever Saul Croaker and his lot might think."

Potter gives her a small smile. "You're a good Auror, Althea Whitaker."

"I have a good guv," she says, and she nods towards the doors. "Want to go see if Zabini's stumbled on Lestrange yet?"

"More like he'll hex us for leaving him to it alone." Potter starts down the hallway again, Althea at his heels. He pauses at the doorway. "After you, Sergeant."

Together they walk out into the cold, black-tiled lobby, the doors to the Department of Mysteries swinging shut behind them. 

Good fucking riddance, Althea thinks.

***

The bedroom's still dark when Harry wakes up. He's tired; today had been utter shit at work--he still hasn't had time to talk to Hermione about Whitaker's concerns, but it's been weighing on his mind since this afternoon. He doesn't want Hermione to be part of something like that. He doesn't think she would be. Still. He's uncertain, and he doesn't trust Saul fucking Croaker further than he could hex him. Then when he'd finally come home Draco hadn't been here. Harry'd panicked at first, firecalling Andromeda to ask if Draco was visiting his mother, then, when Andromeda had bemusedly pointed out that she hadn't seen Draco since Harry's birthday dinner the night before, Harry'd rung off without saying goodbye before Flooing over to Draco's flat.

No one had been there. 

So Harry'd come back to Grimmauld and poured himself two fingers of whisky, nursing them as he sat in the library, his worry growing. The Floo had sparked to life at half-seven, green flames swirling up from the logs, and Draco'd stepped through. 

"Where the fuck were you?" Harry'd demanded, and Draco had just given him a blank look as he slipped out of his Unspeakable jacket, draping it over the arm of the sofa. Kreacher'd been there a moment later, sliding it off, then disappearing. 

"Azkaban mostly," Draco'd said. "Then I had an appointment with Archibald Burke about my father's estate." He'd sounded exhausted. Worn out. "Don't whinge at me, Harry. I can't bear it right now."

So Harry hadn't. They'd eaten dinner in near silence, Draco just shrugging any time Harry'd wanted to start a conversation. Draco hadn't wanted to talk, hadn't wanted to fuck, hadn't wanted to do much of anything other than lie in the bathtub after dinner for an hour, then wrap himself in a robe and curl up on the bed, reading. 

Harry hadn't pushed. He knows better, knows that doing so will just infuriate Draco, make him shut down even more. Really, if he's honest, he'd just been bloody grateful that Draco'd come back safe and sound. Harry doesn't know what he would've done if Draco hadn't stumbled through the Floo. He'd already been half out of his mind with worry as it was. 

And now Harry's been pulled from sleep by a noise. He sits up, peers at the clock on the nightstand, his vision blurry without his glasses. It's nearly two; he's been asleep for three hours. He glances over at the window first; it's still closed, moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, pooling across the bed. Draco's pale hair glints in the light; he's curled on his side, his back to Harry, the coverlet tugged up over his bare shoulder. 

Harry's just reached for his wand and glasses on the side table when the noise comes again. A soft exhale, then a cry, and Draco's shuddering next to Harry, his body jerking, his breath coming in quick, almost keening gasps. 

For a moment, Harry's on high alert, and then he realises that Draco's having a panic attack or a bad dream. He's not certain which, but he doesn't want to wake him too quickly if it's the latter. Harry knows from experience how jarring it can be to be pulled from a nightmare abruptly. He reaches out a hand and lays it carefully against Draco's shoulder blade, hoping not to make anything worse with the touch of his fingers. 

"Hey. Draco." Harry doesn't know whether Draco's asleep or not, but he doesn't want him to startle awake. He spreads his fingers across Draco's warm skin, keeps his voice soft and gentle. "It's okay."

Still, Draco jolts upright when Harry repeats his name, his hands scrabbling in the covers, his breath a harsh, quick puff. Harry can see the moment when Draco comes fully to consciousness, his grey eyes wide in the dimness of the bedroom, his head raised above the coverlet, blond hair tousled, tumbling over his flushed cheek.

"Harry. I..." Draco's voice is raspy and raw, his face haunted, his body stiff as he holds himself up, uncertain. He licks his bottom lip, blinks as his eyes adjust to the faint light. He looks back over his shoulder at Harry. "What…" He exhales, pushes his hair off his face with a trembling hand. His pupils are wide, his face pale, the pinkness draining slowly away. 

"It's all right." Harry shifts closer, trying to soothe Draco, his palm sliding across Draco's back, placing a gentle weight on Draco's shoulder. "You've just had a bad dream. I'm here."

Draco sinks back against his stack of pillows and lets Harry drape an arm over him, his body still shaking slightly. Harry runs his fingertips over Draco's forehead, murmuring softly beneath his breath, telling Draco over and over he'll be fine, that Harry won't leave him alone. Draco's skin is clammy and his breathing's still too quick for Harry's liking. Harry molds himself carefully around Draco's side, the mattress dipping beneath them both. 

"I think you've had a bad dream." Harry's hand slips over Draco's heart, willing it to slow down. He keeps the pressure against Draco's chest light, but firm, and he shifts a little, making space for Draco to curl back against him. "But you're here at Grimmauld, with me, and it's all right now."

Harry knows from his own nightmares and terrors how hard shaking off the reality of a truly horrific dream can be. He's woken by himself more than once, unable to move, unable to scream, a heavy weight on his chest, holding him down, pressing into him until Harry's certain he'll suffocate. He doesn't want that for Draco. "Just breathe," he says quietly. "It'll pass. I've got you. Yeah?"

"Yeah." Draco's still holding his body stiffly, if yielding a bit more as he wakes, his body sinking back against Harry's. He licks his lips, and takes a deep breath. "Fuck. That was terrible."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry pauses, trying to figure out what to say to be as supporting as possible. He knows better than to push, particularly in the mood Draco'd been in before they'd fallen asleep, but he wants Draco to know he's there nonetheless. "You don't have to, of course. But, if you do, I'm happy to listen."

"I'm not sure." Draco sounds a bit far away, a bit wobbly. "I'm still trying to find the words."

"Let me get you a cup of tea." Harry has an urge to do something--anything, for Christ's sake to keep that awful shakiness from Draco's voice--and he hopes a nice, warm mug of milky tea will pull Draco out of his dream lethargy. If Draco's dreams are anything like Harry's, he's still physically reeling from the sensations of it, Harry thinks. Besides, the walk to the kitchens will do Harry good, if he's honest. His own pulse's quickened from worry now, and he needs to do something concrete to dispel the tendrils of horror that have crept into their quiet night. "Would you like that?"

Draco hesitates, and then he nods. "Please," he says, and he shifts in the bed, turning towards Harry. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Don't be daft." Harry smoothes Draco's hair back from his face. Draco can't quite look at Harry; that worries him. "You'll be all right here for a moment?"

"I'm fine," Draco says, but Harry knows that's a lie. Harry wonders if he should leave Draco alone, if it's foolish of him to slide out of bed right now. Then Draco takes a deep breath and says, "I'd rather like a cup of tea, I think." He lets his fingertips brush against Harry's bare chest. "Thank you."

Harry exhales, leans in and brushes a kiss against Draco's forehead. "Then a cup of tea you'll have, love." He pulls back, searches Draco's face. "I won't be long. Just enough to set a boiling charm on the kettle and pop a tea bag in a mug."

"You Philistine," Draco says, and his mouth tugs up ever so slightly at one corner. "Not a proper brew, but it'll do for this hour of the night. Milk first, if you please."

And if Draco's being demanding like that, Harry thinks in relief, he must be feeling a bit better. Harry slips out of bed, reaching for the joggers he'd left crumpled on the floor before climbing into bed a few hours ago. "Back in a tick." He sets his glasses back on the bridge of his nose; the world shifts back into focus.

However, when Harry steps into the hallway, Kreacher's already standing there with a frown on his leathery face, his thin arms crossed. The effect's almost comical; the ancient house elf's wrapped in a tattered plaid cloth that stretches down to his bony ankles, over a tunic of sorts fashioned from what looks like a repurposed, quilted tea cosy in a colour that might once have been dark red. To crown it all, Kreacher's wearing a cap that'd once been a fuzzy knit Cannons potholder Ron had given Harry yonks ago, back before he and Hermione'd tied the knot and Harry's presents from them both had become significantly less orange and far more tasteful. Harry can still see the burnt edges where he'd singed the damned thing in a kitchen fire when he'd forgotten his cheese toastie on the hob. Really, he'd thought he'd thrown it out. Harry suppresses the unfortunate urge to laugh. 

"Kreacher, what's wrong?" he asks, trying to sidestep the elf. 

"The house is waking Kreacher with a bang." Kreacher's raspy voice is terribly earnest as he adds, "Is Master Draco being all right?"

A surge of gratitude hits Harry, leaving him a bit breathless in its wake. He's so thankful to Kreacher for his concern, to the bloody house for not leaving Harry alone to wrestle with whatever it is that's unsettling Draco enough to wake him like this. Harry doesn't quite know what to say. He wants to squeeze the wizened old elf's shoulder, tell him he's utterly brill, but Harry thinks that might horrify Kreacher. Possibly even stop his poor, shrivelled heart. Instead Harry says gently, "Thank you. He's all right. But I was going down to the kitchen to make him some tea."

Kreacher looks mortally offended for a moment, then his scraggly brows draw together and his eyes flash in irritation. And there's the house elf Harry's more familiar with. "You is not. Kreacher is making Master Draco tea, and Harry Potter is staying with him."

"I--" Harry starts to say.

"Bedroom. Now." Kreacher snaps, and then he's shuffling off, his plaid cloth sliding off one narrow shoulder, muttering to himself about propriety and wizards being knowing their places, thank you ever so much. 

Harry watches him stomp down the stairs, bemused and almost fond. 

"You is not leaving the Master alone, Harry Potter," Kreacher shouts from the landing below. 

"I'm going," Harry says, wondering how he's found himself with a house that he's fairly certain is mad for his boyfriend and an elf who seems to think said boyfriend is more his master than Harry himself is. He shakes his head, huffing a soft, wry laugh, then he turns to go back into the bedroom.

Draco's sitting up against the pillows, a small light lit on the side table. Harry's bed has changed since Draco started staying here. Harry likes a pillow, perhaps two if he's ill, but Draco can't sleep without three stacked behind him, propping his head up with their softness. The coverlet's different too, still a dark blue, but thicker and more plush instead of the serviceable cotton Harry's slept beneath for years. Harry doesn't even know how that happened or when. 

"Hey," Harry says, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

"Was that Kreacher shouting outside?" Draco asks, one eyebrow going up.

Harry nods, scanning Draco's face. In the soft golden light, Draco's ethereal, his hair shining and tousled around his angular, weary face. 

"Has this confrontation put off my tea?" Draco leans his head back against the pillows. He looks so bloody tired. Harry takes in the dark circles carved beneath Draco's almond eyes, the contrast almost too stark against the bloodless pale skin of his cheeks. 

"Not really." Harry shifts under Draco's gaze, gesturing towards the door. "Kreacher's making you a cup. Evidently the house woke him when you..." Harry trails off, looks over at Draco.

Draco's face scrunches as though he's tasting vinegar unexpectedly. "This sodding house is really a bit too vigilant. I just had a bad dream. Nothing else." He sounds petulant. Unhappy. "There's no sense in the lot of you being so concerned."

Harry slides beneath the coverlet, then shifts closer, smoothing the wrinkle between Draco's brows with the pad of his thumb. "Hush, you berk. Let us all worry about you, yeah?"

For a moment, Draco still looks a bit mulish, but he allows Harry to pull him against his chest and card his hand through Draco's hair. It's soft, like a toddler's, really, the way Teddy's had been when he was younger, and Harry's never admitted out loud how much he likes touching Draco's hair. It seems strange, he supposes, and, really, Merlin, it probably _is_ strange, if Harry's honest. Still, the gilt softness of Draco's hair sliding through his fingers surprises Harry every time. 

"What woke you up?" Harry asks.

"Nothing," Draco says. At Harry's incredulous look, Draco frowns. "It was just a dream."

"About?" Harry waits for Draco to speak, cradling him against his chest, giving him time. Draco sighs, leans into Harry's touch. He folds the coverlet between his fingers, pleating it before letting it spring free. Harry just watches him, waits. He knows Draco well enough to realise Draco needs time to think, to form what he wants to say. 

They have time, Harry thinks. All night, if Draco needs it.

"Being in Azkaban," Draco begins after a long silence. Then he stops. Harry can hear the soft tick of the clock on the side table, the careful, quiet huff of Draco's breath, warm against the bare skin of Harry's chest. And then Draco says, "Really, being around the Dementors reminded me of visiting my father in there. In Azkaban." He looks up at Harry. "That was the summer before sixth year."

Harry knows. He remembers how pale and wan and angry Draco had been when he'd come back to school, how he'd locked Harry in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express after stomping his booted foot on Harry's face. It surprises Harry sometimes that he's lying here in bed with the same boy, that somehow they've managed to overcome all their differences, make peace with their pasts. 

"I can't imagine having to visit someone you loved in a place like that," Harry says quietly. He supposes it's almost worse than death, although at least they're still here among the living. In a fashion. But Harry's not certain that matters in the end. Not when you're locked away, surrounded by creatures that feed off the slightest happy emotion, that thrive on your despair. Harry knows that Sirius had survived years in Azkaban, and he'd never really talked about it, other than saying that, in a place like that, you had to give up a bit to keep your mind--though not entirely. Harry can still see the fear that had filled his godfather's eyes. He'd been too young to understand it then, but now he knows. Sirius would have done anything to keep from going back to Azkaban.

Draco shuts his eyes, presses his face against Harry's chest. "I could also could feel their loneliness and sadness." The words are a soft whisper across Harry's skin. "The Dementors, I mean. Circe, Harry. It was awful." He draws in a ragged breath. "I've never felt anything so bloody overwhelming. Like…." He hesitates, then sighs. "Like I was lost. And angry. And I couldn't get back to where I'd come from, but there were people waiting for me--" He breaks off, falls silent for a moment. His hand settles against Harry's stomach, long, pale fingers splayed wide across Harry's golden skin. "I don't know how they keep from hurtling themselves into the North Sea. I would if I had to feel that every day."

It's all Harry can do not to tense himself. He's still so goddamned angry with Croaker for sending Draco into the field--and to Azkaban of all fucking places--so soon after his father's death. Draco's not ready for it. That much is bloody well clear. But it's not Harry's say anymore, is it, and if Harry gets furious right now, rages against Croaker and his idiocy, it'll keep Draco from having the space he needs to talk. Harry wills himself to calm down, focuses on Draco's breathing which has now slowed, steadied a bit. The house is quiet around them.

The knock comes at the door then, softly, and Harry says, "Come in."

Kreacher pads around the end of the bed, coming to Draco's side, and Draco sits up, leans over to take the cup from the elf. "Thank you, Kreacher," he says, his hands curling around the white porcelain mug, and Harry's sure he hears warmth in Draco's tone.

"Is nothing, Master Draco. I hopes you rests well now." Kreacher frowns up at Draco for a moment, almost fondly, his worry written across his face. "If you is needing anything--"

"Don't worry," Draco says. "I'll send for you."

Kreacher nods, the Cannons potholder flopping over his ears. He looks grimly at Harry. "You is staying with Master Draco."

Harry tries not to smile. "I give you my word, Kreacher."

Kreacher harumphs, then shuffles away, the bedroom door closing behind him with a soft snick.

Draco gives Harry a half-smile, warm and yet awkward, and it punches the breath out of Harry's chest. "Kreacher didn't even look scandalised, finding us like this. We're going to have to work harder, I fear." 

"Well, I did shag you across the dining room table last night," Harry points out. "And in your great-aunt's pearls at that. How shameful of us."

"Far more disgraceful than the frock," Draco says, and he laughs, soft but real. 

Harry's prick twitches in his joggers. "You looked bloody gorgeous," he says, his voice louder than he expected in the quiet of their bedroom. "You know that."

Draco's cheeks pinken. "Thank you," he says, and he looks away, his hair falling over his face. He sips at the steaming mug of tea, the white porcelain monogrammed in gold with the Black family crest. 

They're both silent for a long moment, then Harry reaches over, smoothes Draco's hair back again. "Do you want to talk?" he says. 

Draco sighs. "Not really." He runs a thumb over the rim of his mug. "It's just a bloody dream."

"That doesn't mean it didn't upset you," Harry says. He watches Draco. Waits. 

"I know." Draco's staring down into his milky tea, watching it swirl against the sides of the mug as he tilts it just a bit. He takes another sip, breathes out, presses the lip of the mug against his mouth, the steam curling around his long, sharp nose.

Harry doesn't say anything.

Draco sighs and lowers his mug. The coverlet's around his waist; his legs are crossed, his pyjama bottoms ruched up around his narrow hips. He turns the mug in his hands, then looks over at Harry. "In the dream, Father had become a Dementor. He was reproaching me for abandoning him." Harry can tell Draco's fighting back a shudder. He wonders what it'd be like to see your father that way, to think of him as a rotting wraith, one who could suck the slightest bit of joy from your soul. 

"That makes sense," Harry says carefully. He pulls his knees up to his chest, glances over at Draco. "I mean, you'd seen him before in Azkaban, all those years ago, and you put the two visits together."

Draco nods, looking out over the mug into the corner of the room. "I suppose." Draco bites at his lip, worries it between his sharp, white teeth. "I don't know how I knew it was him, but I did. I could see him, beneath the hood, could see his face and the way his mouth moved when he said my name…" He trails off, draws in a shaky breath. "Merlin. It was…." Draco lifts his tea, takes a long sip before lowering the mug again. He exhales, not looking at Harry. "The worst of it was when Father looked at me and said, 'You did this to me, Draco. I would be free if it weren't for you.'" Draco's fingers tighten around the mug. A bit of tea splashes across his thumb. He lifts it to his mouth, licks it clean. "It wasn't pleasant," Draco says, his gaze on the window, and Harry thinks that's rather an understatement. The tree outside sways in a faint breeze, its branches scratching lightly against the glass panes, shadows stretching across the sheer curtains.

Harry takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I suppose it's a kind of logic, if a bit twisted." Fucked up, Harry wants to say, but he doesn't think that'll help Draco right now. 

"I do feel guilty." Draco chews his lip again. "If I hadn't brought him in he wouldn't have been killed." He holds up his hand as Harry protests. "But I also know it's not my fault."

That's a relief at least, Harry thinks. "There's nothing you could have done." Harry brushes a hand over Draco's arm, then lets it fall. "It really isn't your fault what happened. Any of it."

Privately, Harry wants to kill Lestrange at least twice, once for ambushing the prison transport and taking so many lives including Lucius', and once for laying this burden on his boyfriend's shoulders. Instead, Harry'll focus on bringing Lestrange to justice, on locking that bastard back up into Azkaban with no chance of playing these stupid games again--which is a crueller punishment by far for someone of his sort.

For a few moments, they're both quiet, the house still and soothing around them. Then Draco says, "I also went to see Archibald Burke before I came home."

Harry's been expecting it. "You said earlier." And then had promptly refused to discuss it when Harry'd brought it back up again. He says carefully, "How was that?"

"Well, for one, there's a lot more money than I'd thought, given how Father had been selling off assets from the Manor." Draco pauses, lifts his mug of tea to his mouth again. He still isn't looking at Harry.

A keen sense of misgiving comes upon Harry, a thought that this might lead them further if he could only figure out what's going on. It's like a beam of light, and he thinks it's Draco's thought, but he's not sure. "Are you suspicious?" 

Draco nods slowly. "Yeah." He's quiet for a moment, then he looks over at Harry. "What's even stranger is that it's in some sort of untouchable, possibly offshore account."

"I didn't think Gringotts did offshore accounting." Harry's fuzzy on the details, but he remembers something about stricter rules in wizarding finance per ICW regulations, although there can be other loopholes through banks in countries who aren't part of the wizarding confederation. 

"They don't." Draco scowls into his tea. "Burke was a bit cloudy about the details, but, to be honest, I think he didn't know about the fund until recently. Very recently. He seemed as surprised as I was by the report in Father's accounts, didn't know how it'd got there." He lifts his mug again. "It wasn't a wizarding bank." 

"So, wait." Harry's too tired to think properly, but his Auror brain is still trying to tick through the details. "Are you suggesting your father hid money in a Muggle account?"

The look Draco shoots him gives Harry pause. Draco looks fierce, but also fragile, and Harry's suddenly worried about the strain this is placing on him. "That's the thing. My father would never have money in a Muggle bank. It's so uncharacteristic of him. I thought Burke was joking at first when I saw the balance sheet, even though I don't think he's made a jest in at least fifty years."

"But Lucius did have money in a Muggle account?" Harry's not sure he's following, and he knows that it's upsetting Draco to talk about it. Still, he doesn't want to miss something important. "You're sure of it."

"Yes." Draco sets his mug down on the side table, then leans back against the pillows, folding his arms over his chest. "I am sure. I just have no fucking idea what it means."

"I'm sure you could find out, though. If you wanted to." Harry's worried though, that Draco can't handle finding out more about his father right now, that he shouldn't push himself yet. He knows Draco's as eager as he is for new details about the case, but he doesn't want Draco to be disillusioned in the process. This is his father they're talking about after all, Harry thinks. As much as Harry hated Lucius Malfoy at times, he did do something right in helping produce this lovely, contradictory, maddeningly beautiful man who's sharing Harry's bed.

Draco turns his gaze on Harry, as if he can hear what's going through Harry's mind. And Harry realises his defenses are down, his Occlumens a bit tattered by exhaustion and worry, so Draco might just be able to, although Harry bloody well hopes he's been less emphatic about the negative thoughts. 

"Stop it," Draco says a bit crossly. "It's not my fault if your brain's all shouty."

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and he is. He knows it's not easy for Draco to be adjusting to his Legilimency. "You know I don't mind."

Draco frowns over at him. "Sometimes I do." He runs his hands over his face, lets them fall back to his lap. "He was my father, Harry. I know you hate him, but…" His voice catches, and he looks away.

"I hate that he was a sodding wanker," Harry says. "I hate how he makes you feel. Even from the grave. I don't hate that you love him. He's your dad. You knew him in a way the rest of us didn't."

They fall silent. Harry wants to reach out for Draco, wants to pull him closer. He doesn't. Besides, this isn't about him. He can almost hear Freddie's chiding in his mind, reminding him of that fact. He wants to do what Draco needs him to do, not what makes Harry feel better about himself.

"Are we doing the right thing?" Draco asks after a moment, his voice quiet. 

Harry looks over at him. "What do you mean?"

Draco hesitates for a moment, then says, "I just feel like we're getting more and more people killed, and there's no justice. I'm worried about you. I'm worried about Blaise and Pansy and Althea. I'm worried about my mother. I'm worried about everyone these days."

"We're going to be okay," Harry begins.

Draco's eyes are fierce. "Don't offer me bloody platitudes, Potter. I can't take you lying to me too right now." He stops, his voice cracking, and it reminds Harry of the years of space between them, this unexpected, now unfamiliar signal of his last name.

"I'm not trying to lie to you," Harry says, his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm just trying to tell you that I think it will be. Okay, I mean." He sounds foolish to his ears, but he has to believe it. It's something he's willing to fight for, whatever the costs.

"What if I don't?" Draco's voice wavers. "I'm sure those poor sods who ended up as Dementors thought they'd be fine one day too, walking down the street, brilliant as you can be, and then bam, you're a nether being of the space between life and death."

Harry shrugs. Draco does have a point, even if Harry thinks it's a bit more complicated than all that. "I guess so. I mean, I guess they didn't expect to be hit with Death magic that'd tie them to Azkaban for eternity."

"They were so lonely," Draco says. "So confused about why they were where they are. It was terrible, and yet, I also know what it's like."

"You do?" Harry pauses, wondering if he should change the subject.

Draco waves a hand. "Don't worry, Harry. I'm not going to disintegrate just because I had a bad dream. I'm an Auror, for Merlin's sake." He pauses, a look of surprise on his features for a moment. "I mean, I was an Auror. And I'm an Unspeakable now."

"I still don't like Croaker sending you there," Harry says under his breath. "It's not right. Beady eyed old git."

"Dangerous old git, more like it." Draco shifts. "And it's not like he has a bloody choice. Luxembourg's trying to take the situation over. Someone has to look after them. Barachiel Dee's been feeding them off of his own emotions." 

"What?" Harry's stunned for a moment. "They feed off of emotions?" He remembers the horror, the fear, the coldness of being around the Dementors. He wishes he had something positive he could say about them, but he doesn't. They still frighten him some nights, when he's caught in nightmares of his own.

Draco nods, his face grim. "And they were starving. They need to be around humans to survive."

Harry's brought up short by this. It's oddly logical, and yet, strangely distasteful. "That's kind of brilliant, in a very sick sort of way."

"They're not really hurting anyone," Draco says. "I mean, not exactly. Not in their current state. And they are usually following orders if they Kiss someone." He hesitates. "Except the mad ones, Dee says, and they've often gone round the twist whilst they were still human." He shakes his head. "Circe, I never thought I'd know this much about Dementors back when they were at Hogwarts."

A chill runs through Harry, leaving him cold. It's like the terror strikes deep into the heart of everything safe, everything protected. He remembers this feeling from the war. "I can't exactly imagine Amnesty International taking up their cause." The puzzled look Draco turns on him reminds Harry that Draco can't possibly know what that is. "Never mind. It's a Muggle thing."

"I felt sorry for them," Draco says slowly. "And I suppose I feel sorry for my father as well."

He looks so miserable that Harry doesn't balk this time. He takes Draco into his arms, folding Draco against him, Draco's hair settling against Harry's nose. Harry knows he can't offer Draco empty assurances, but he would protect him bodily. It's all he has. He tries to transmit that with the way he holds Draco, with his thoughts, letting Draco see whatever he can in Harry's mind, feel how much Harry needs him, loves him, wants him. Harry hopes it's enough.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you." Draco says in a small voice, his head leant against Harry's shoulder. "It's an enormous fear of mine. I have dreams about that too, and they're awful. Worse than this, really." He picks at the coverlet, not looking up at Harry before he adds, "I think I'd rather die than hear that something'd happened to you."

"Jesus, Draco. Nothing can happen to either of us." Harry tightens his hold on Draco, pulling him closer until Draco's all but sprawled across his lap. "I won't allow it." Harry feels powerless, but incredibly determined. He won't let anyone take him from Draco. In any way. They've fought too hard for each other. Harry can't imagine Draco not being here with him like this. He wants Draco to stay, wants Draco to be part of Grimmauld, the way he's meant to be. 

Harry almost tells him this, but the words stick in his throat, refusing to take shape. 

Draco squirms, turning in Harry's grasp until they're facing each other, their noses almost touching on the pillow. "Nothing can happen to you, Harry. I mean it." His breath is soft and warm against Harry's lips. "Promise me that."

Harry kisses him softly as a reply, and for a few moments, that's all he needs to say. 

"You know I worry about you too," Harry says when Draco draws back, looking at Harry, his mouth swollen and wet. "You're not allowed to get hurt on this mad thing Croaker has you doing."

"Oh, don't worry," Draco's look is a bit sly--more so than Harry likes. "I'm sure Durant will protect me."

Harry's nostrils flare, but he catches the smile on Draco's face before his temper gets the better of him. "Arsehole."

Draco laughs in response, and Harry's glad Draco's back to his regular self. An earnest Draco Malfoy is a worrying sight indeed.

"Barachiel Dee trusts him, though." Draco frowns as Harry shifts, his arm resting on Draco's waist. "It's like they can both see the Dementors, not just feel them. Can tell what they are--who they are." His brow furrows. "I want to know what they see."

Harry's hand curls around Draco's hip, his fingers dipping just beneath the elastic of Draco's pyjama pants. "Does it matter that much?"

Draco's quiet for a moment, and then he nods. "I think so," he says slowly. "Burke doesn't seem to care--Muriel, not Archibald--but it's like there's something, just out of sight, playing about in my peripheral vision. I want to know what it is, and I don't trust Dee and Durant to tell me."

"What are you going to do?" Harry asks. 

"I don't know yet," Draco says, and he sighs, burrowing closer against Harry's body. "I'll figure it out. Eventually."

They lie together quietly, their breaths evening out. Harry tries to stop worrying, tries to still the thoughts roiling around his mind, twisting into a tangle of confused threads pulling Lucius Malfoy and the Dementors and Azkaban together. He closes his eyes, sighs. 

"You can turn off the light," Draco says after a moment, his voice a bit sleepy. "I promise not to have another nightmare."

Harry leans over, switches off the lamp. Darkness wraps around them, moonlight shining through the window. He dozes for a bit, Draco's head warm against his shoulder, Draco's soft breaths slipping into quiet snores.

Bloody hell, Harry thinks, before sleep pulls him under, he'd do anything for this brilliant bastard.

Anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> As I mentioned above, I'm temporarily moving to a two-week posting schedule until I'm feeling more like myself mentally (pets poor battered brain), so the next chapter should be up on Sunday, October 22th.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry has an unwelcome encounter, Jake receives an unexpected phone call, and then all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, your newest biweekly Special Branch installment! Given all that's been going on IRL with my household this past fortnight--oh so much more than I'd like, yikes, but life this autumn's been decidedly more difficult than usual--the two-week posting schedule will be maintained for the foreseeable future. My poor brain is mending (thanks so much for the good wishes), and the plot is thickening for Our Team (*insert evil laugh here*).
> 
> Lots of love to you readers--I'm so very grateful to you for your patience with me right now! Oodles of thanks to Cissa and Noe for their continuing help and enthusiasm. Hope everyone enjoys! 
> 
> *runs and hides*

At half-ten on Friday morning, Harry pops down to the tea shop in the Ministry atrium for a cup of what passes for coffee amongst British wizardingdom. It's far too weak and far too thin, and with one sip of it, Harry grimaces and adds another glug of milk into it from the pitcher on the side bar. He'd rather have coffee-flavoured milk than this watery slop.

Still, it's warm, and there's at least a modicum of caffeine in it, which is all that Harry bloody well cares about at the moment. He'd been up late last night, unable to sleep after fucking Draco into the mattress, their sweaty bodies tangled together, Draco's head on Harry's shoulder. Harry'd watched him for what felt like hours, Draco's soft, snorting snuffles warm against Harry's skin, his pale hair tumbling over his cheek, spreading across Harry's bare shoulder, tickling Harry's nose. 

The past two days have been exhausting, really. Harry's barely seen Draco; his boyfriend's been up at Azkaban for hours on end with Burke and Dee and Jake, and when Draco comes home, he looks weary and wan, the colour gone from his cheeks, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. To be honest, Harry's surprised Draco'd been up for a shag last night; it'd been a bit of a shock when Draco had crawled into bed beside Harry and pushed him into the pillows, plucking off Harry's glasses and tossing them aside, along with the file Harry'd been skimming through. 

"Stop sifting through my father's accounts," Draco had said bluntly, his mouth twisted in an uneasy grimace as the file'd slapped onto the floor, its contents spilling out across the threadbare rug with its worn spots and faded blue swirls around muted mauve roses. He'd straddled Harry's hips, his hands sliding beneath the hem of Harry's t-shirt. "I'd rather you fuck me raw, Harry."

Harry had, with Draco's long legs wrapped around him, Draco's fingernails digging so deeply into Harry's shoulders that he'd left scratches Harry hadn't bothered to heal this morning. Harry likes the feel of his raw, scraped skin against the cotton of his shirt, reminding him how Draco had looked spread out beneath him, his throat flushed and arched, his teeth biting into his lip as he'd shuddered and groaned with each quick thrust of Harry's prick into him. 

Afterwards, Harry'd lain awake as Draco'd drifted off to sleep, and he'd watched the rustle of the tree branches move outside the window in a faint breeze, sending shadows dancing across the bedroom ceiling. Harry doesn't know why he hadn't slept. Perhaps it's the stress of the Lestrange manhunt, and how bloody little they've managed to track down in the past three sodding weeks. Harry knows he should be further along in the case, knows that each day that slides by leaves the trail colder, harder to follow. But nothing Seven-Four-Alpha's done of late has been any fucking help, he thinks grimly, and if he's honest, he suspects they don't really have their heart in any of this, not the way they had when Draco had been in their midst. Even Whitaker's off her game, and that worries Harry more than he'd like to admit. 

He turns on his heel, his paper cup filled with milky coffee clutched in one hand, and he promptly collides with a tiny witch, her grey hair in loose waves around her shoulders. 

"Fucking bloody hell," Griselda Marchbanks says, looking down at the open front of her black Wizengamot robe, now spattered with a good half of Harry's coffee. 

"Sorry," Harry manages, and he tries to rub at her robe with the handful of serviettes wadded in his fist. She bats them away, frowning up at him. Harry knows the moment she realises who's stumbled into her; he's familiar with the widened eyes, the way the look of annoyance shifts, slides into an ingratiating smile. 

"Inspector Potter." Marchbanks' sharp gaze sweeps over Harry, and he thinks she's taking in the wrinkles in his shirt, the way the sleeves are pushed up his forearms, the looseness of his tie. Her mouth tightens ever so slightly around the corners, and then she forces herself to relax. "So lovely to see you out and about. I'd have thought you to be holed up with that team of yours, tracking down Rodolphus Lestrange."

And this is why Harry hates the bloody Members of the Wizengamot. They always think they know how to do his fucking job. He manages to give Marchbanks a cool, tight smile. "We're working on every lead we have."

"Of course." It's clear from her tone that Marchbanks is sceptical. She hesitates, then says, "I'm certain you'll have it all sorted in no time." The look she gives him is appraising. "Gawain assures us your team is top-notch." Her gaze doesn't leave his face. "Particularly now certain personnel changes have been made."

Harry's smile thins. He's bloody certain Gawain'd said no such thing. Not to a fucking cow like Griselda Marchbanks. "I stand by the work of all the members of Seven-Four-Alpha. Past and present."

Marchbanks just looks amused. "Well, to be honest, I understand the Wizengamot is no longer aware there were any past members," she says. "Officially, at least." She reaches across him and takes a serviette or two from the side bar, dabbing at the spilled coffee across her flat chest, wiping away the small milky droplets. Her gaze flicks back up to Harry's face. "That being said, one does prefer not having former Death Eaters in the ranks of British law enforcement, particularly given recent events."

It's all Harry can do to keep his temper. "Sergeant Malfoy was a valued member--"

"Yes," Marchbanks says, her voice sharp. "I'm quite aware of Draco Malfoy's usefulness to the Ministry. How very convenient that you're now hunting his uncle--"

"Who bloody well killed his father, so I really don't think there's a point to your implication." Harry looks at her, and he can feel the swell of anger rising up. He tries to tamp it down, tries to keep his temper. Griselda Marchbanks isn't worth it. Not today. "If you'll excuse me, I've work--"

"I do hope," Marchbanks says as Harry steps past her, "that I can speak with you soon regarding the legislation Ernest and I have been putting together."

Harry turns, looking back at her. "The Death Eater Registry," he says flatly, and she raises an eyebrow. 

"Your support would be most appreciated," Marchbanks says, and Harry can't really believe she's asking this of him, here. There's one of the Wizengamot clerks at the till, small and mousy, and she's watching them both from the corner of her eye, as are the man and woman behind her, both from the Pest Advisory Board, judging from their coveralls. Harry lets his gaze swing back to Marchbanks, who's regarding him with an air of faint amusement tinged with more than a smidge of suspicion. "If it helps," she says, "we've already gained the endorsement of your dear friend Percy Weasley."

And that feels like a punch to the gut, doesn't it? It must show on Harry's face because Marchbanks' smile widens just a bit. 

"George Weasley as well." Marchbanks lowers her voice. "He's donating quite a bit to our cause. Helping us get the word out to the public about our goals. As you could, if you'd like." Her eyes gleam in the bright lights of the tea shop. "It'd be quite the coup to have the Saviour of the Wizarding World on our side." She tilts her head slightly, studying him. "As one should hope you would be, all things considered."

Harry can't breathe, can't move, can't think. It's been too long since he's been to the Burrow, he realises. Since Midsummer, really, and none of the Weasleys except Ron and Hermione know about him and Draco, do they? But if they did, would they care? Would it change Percy's mind--or George's--to know that Harry's fallen arse over tit for Draco Malfoy of all people? 

And Ron hasn't said anything to him. Neither has Hermione. Harry wonders if they know, if they've always known, if, perhaps, they even agree with Percy and George. But they can't. They wouldn't. Ron'd told him the legislation was bollocks, that it oughtn't pass, that they'd fight it however they could. Harry knows Ron wouldn't lie to him. Not about this.

But that doesn't mean Ron would oppose his own family on it. A niggle of doubt worms its way into Harry's mind, makes him question everything his best mate's told him in recent weeks. It's mad of him, he knows, but he can't help himself. He remembers Ron telling him the Diagon Shopkeepers' Association was getting uneasy about Lestrange being on the run. Harry wonders if they've turned Ron, made him think twice about the Registry. They've obviously done so with George. Harry's certain Percy's twattish enough to have supported the legislation from the beginning. 

Harry looks over at Marchbanks, manages to choke out, "The Weasleys wouldn't…" before trailing off. He's not certain of that any longer.

"They want revenge," Marchbanks says softly. "Can you blame them, Inspector Potter? They lost a brother, thanks to those evil bastards--"

"And I lost a godfather," Harry says, and he can't keep his voice from rising. "And my parents. My godson was left an orphan. Don't tell me what people lost in the war, Griselda. I fucking well know."

Marchbanks looks triumphant. "All the more reason for you to support our legislation. We could make them pay for what they did, make certain it never happens again--"

"By forcing them to register." Harry's fingers tighten around his coffee cup. "By tracking their families, for fuck's sake." His stomach twists; Harry can taste the sour bite of bile in the back of his throat. He knows the whole tea shop's listening to them now, even if they're doing their best British and pretending not to. Harry doesn't care. He wants them to hear him. "Fuck that bollocks. I'm not for revenge, ta ever so." He gives Marchbanks an even look. "In my experience, it never goes the way you want it to. You just end up fucked over, all in all, and looking like a bloody tit in the process. So thanks for the offer, but no." He lets his voice ring out through the shop. "I'm not interested in supporting your legislation. Ever."

"Ah." Marchbanks' eyes narrow; the corners of her mouth draw down. She looks old and bitter, Harry thinks, like a storybook witch ready to shove his worthless carcass off the nearest cliff. "Well." Her gaze flicks towards the Wizengamot clerk. "How very disappointing, Inspector Potter. Perhaps you're not the wizard I'd hoped you to be." She glances over at the woman behind the counter. "My tea?"

The woman flushes, then reaches for a paper cup. "With you in just a tick, ma'am."

It takes a moment for Harry to realise the smell of smoke's coming from his hand. He drops his coffee just as the flames hit his skin, hot and sharp and painful, and the whole tea shop's looking at him, horrified, as the entire cup burns at his feet, small licks of fire twisting around the remnants of the thick paper, consuming the milky liquid that seeps across the wooden floor. Harry stares down at it in surprise, his hand throbbing, and then Marchbanks lifts her robe, stamping down on the fire with her small, polished boot until it's quenched, only the faintest curl of smoke swirling up from the singed bits of waxed paper.

The entire tea shop's silent, then Marchbanks says, her gaze fixed on Harry, "Perhaps you ought to have that hand looked at, Inspector Potter."

Harry opens his palm, glances down at it. Blisters are forming on his fingers, across the creases of his thumb, over the folds of his lifeline, heartline. They hurt, more than he realises at first, and the skin's a bit charred. He knows he's fucked up here, knows deep down inside that Marchbanks is going to use this against him. Somehow. He doesn't know where or when, but the way she's watching him with those sharp, angry eyes lets him know he'd be a fool to trust her not to.

And so Harry does the only thing he can do. He turns on his heel and strides out of the tea shop, all too aware of Marchbanks' gaze, of the murmurs and whispers of the others still waiting for their tea or coffee. He's bollocksed up, and he knows it, and he doesn't go for the lifts back up to the DMLE. 

Instead he takes the steps down to the Department of Mysteries. Harry tells himself he wants to see Draco, but he knows that's not the case. Besides, Draco's not in the Ministry today. He's back in the middle of the sodding North Sea, surrounded by bloody Dementors that'll suck every last bit of joy from him before he comes home to Harry tonight, and Harry doesn't know how much longer he can take that, how many more nights he has to spend with Draco looking so drawn, barely speaking to Harry, just lying curled up on the bed next to Harry, silent and grim. 

It's too goddamned much, Harry thinks. 

When the Unspeakable guard comes out of the doorway, face blank, body tight and taut, Harry looks at him and says, "I need to speak with Hermione Granger." His voice cracks ever so slightly, and he adds, "Please."

Harry sees a flicker of something cross the Unspeakable's face, sees his gaze slip down to Harry's blistered, burnt hand, and then the Unspeakable's gone again, the heavy black door closing behind him with a soft, muffled thud. Harry slumps against the wall, the coolness of the marble tile seeping through the back of his shirt. For a moment, he feels as if he's fifteen again, finding his way through the darkened corridors of the Department of Mysteries, a ragtag band of teenagers behind him, none of them smart enough to realise what they'd stumbled into, not even Hermione. Christ, but they'd been so stupid back then. So naive. So certain that they could stop a madman, and no one had tried to tell them they couldn't. 

Except Snape, Harry supposes, and look how that had gone. Harry'd thought him a traitor, nearly to the very end. He turns his palm over, winces as pain flares through his hand when he tries to close his fingers. He's never lost his temper like this before. Not so publicly. Not so quickly. Harry hadn't even noticed that the cup was burning, not until the moment he'd dropped it. He rubs a thumb across one of the blisters. It stings; the fluid beneath his skin bubbles and slides from one side of the blister to the other. 

The door swings open again. Hermione's there, her teal shirt bright against the dark wood and black tile. "Harry?" she asks, and her brow furrows when she sees him. "What've you done?"

Harry holds up his hand. "Griselda Marchbanks," he says, and he feels oddly blank inside. "I think she made me angry."

"Oh, Harold." Hermione's voice is soft, and then she's pulling him into the corridor, leading him through a twisting, turning maze of halls that Harry knows he'll never remember again. She stops in front of a plain, black door, and Harry's no idea how she knows it from the ones on either side. Hermione pushes it open. "Go on with you," she says, and Harry steps through. 

The office is small but tidy, and it's much nicer than any of Harry's ever have been, with a thick grey carpet and a compact but heavy dark wooden desk filling most of the space. Hermione waves Harry into a chair, and then she takes his hand, turning it one way then another. 

"Did she notice?" Hermione asks, and Harry gives her a faint, wry smile.

"The whole tea shop upstairs did," he admits, and Hermione sighs. She turns away, towards a cabinet in the corner of the office. She rummages in it for a moment, then pulls out a small blue tin and hands it to Harry. 

"Just a bit," Hermione says. "Too much and it'll wear off your fingerprints." At Harry's raised eyebrow, she adds, "It's experimental. We're trying to keep it out of criminal hands, so to speak."

Harry twists off the top and takes a small scoop of the thick, sticky salve. It smells like ginger and hops and something a bit sharp and acrid. "Foul," Harry says.

"Dragon's blood." Hermione sits on the edge of her desk. "If you're this narked off at Marchbanks, it has to be over the Registry."

For a moment, Harry doesn't answer. He rubs the salve into his burnt hand, pressing it into the blistered bubbles. He sighs as the pain starts to fade, if only a bit, and then looks up at Hermione. "She says Percy and George are supporting her."

Hermione's silent. She looks away, and she folds her arms across her chest. It's all Harry needs to know. He caps the tin and hands it back to her.

"Why?" Harry asks. Something sharp and unpleasant roils deep inside of him, the burn starting to rise again. He pushes it back down. "You knew." She should have told him, Harry thinks. Hermione owes him that, at least. 

"I did." Hermione runs a hand over her hair. She's wearing it twisted back today, her curls smoothed against her head, knotted high up. She's not looking at Harry. "Ron's been arguing with them, you know. For weeks now. Telling George he's wrong. They had a terrible row at the shop the other night about it all. Angelina says George didn't come home until nearly half-eleven." She sighs, worries her bright red lip between her teeth. Her lipstick smudges against the edges; she drags her tongue across her teeth and the crimson stain disappears. "Percy's a lost cause."

Harry watches as the blisters start to disappear, one by one, the pockets of fluid sinking back into his hand. "How…" He doesn't really know what he's asking. Harry's tired, worn out. He looks up at Hermione, and her face softens. 

"George doesn't mean to be a shit," Hermione says after a moment. "It's just Fred…" She sighs again. "Well. You know."

And Harry does. George hasn't ever really come to terms with Fred's death, and Harry doesn't think he ever will. Losing his twin had changed George, made him quieter, quicker to lose his temper. They'd all thought he might get better when he'd started dating Angelina. Well, all of them except Hermione, who'd been a bit worried about what it meant that George was shagging about with his brother's ex-girlfriend. _It's not healthy,_ she'd said, and Harry wonders if they should have all listened to her. But George really had seemed more stable with Angelina, and he'd actually started laughing again, his shoulders straightening, his eyes getting brighter. And with the baby arriving any day now...

"It's the baby, isn't it?" Harry says, realisation hitting him. "It's bringing it all back for him. The war, I mean."

"Something like that." Hermione's voice is soft, gentle. "Ron says he's having nightmares again." She glances over at Harry; her fingers pleat the soft fabric of her shirt. "It started after the Morsmordre pictures were in the _Prophet._ George was fine before then; he even thought the Registry was a ridiculous idea. But then…" She trails off. 

Harry twists the top back onto the tin. "Lestrange escaped."

"It's frightened him," Hermione says. "He's worried Lestrange will come after Angelina and the baby--"

"That's bollocks," Harry snaps. "Lestrange has no reason to. Fuck, he's more likely to come after Draco the way things are bloody going. Not George's family."

Hermione just looks at him. "You know that, and I know that," she says. "But sometimes we're not always rational about the things that frighten us." 

"I know." Harry closes his fist. The blisters are nearly gone; it barely hurts to curl his fingers in. Draco will shout at him if he finds out what Harry did in front of Marchbanks; Harry thinks he'll probably deserve it. He's been trying so hard to work on his temper, trying so hard to hide what happens when it flares. He ought to bring it up with Freddie again--he's another appointment scheduled for next week--but Harry's not certain he wants to admit the intensity of that white-hot rage. It unsettles him, this violent twist of magic and fury, and now that it's fading, Harry just wants to pretend that it hadn't happened. 

Harry has a suspicion Griselda Marchbanks won't let him, though, not the way she was watching him at the time, and that was fucking stupid of him, wasn't it?

When he looks up, Hermione's studying him, lines of worry creasing her forehead. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired," Harry says, and it's a half-truth at least. "It's been difficult this week. Work and home." He shrugs, not really wanting to talk about either. 

Hermione's silent for a moment, then she says, "The Dementors."

"A bit." Harry hands the tin of salve back to her. "But Draco won't talk about any of it when he comes home at night." He looks up at Hermione. "Do you know what they're doing up at Azkaban with Dee?"

"No." Hermione shakes her head. "Jake's only filing reports with MACUSA this time, not us, and Muriel Burke's writeups are vague at best." She hesitates, then adds, "I suspect she doesn't want Saul to be too well-informed about the matter. There's…" She frowns, exhales. "History, I suppose you might say, between them."

"Really?" Harry raises an eyebrow, but he knows from the look Hermione gives him she's not going to be any more forthcoming. He falls silent, rubbing his thumb across his healing palm. It doesn't hurt any more, only tingles as the singed skin fades, replaced by new, healthy cells. He sighs and slumps back in his chair, looking around Hermione's office. He's been in here before, but rarely. Hermione prefers to meet him out of work or upstairs in the DMLE. There's little here that even seems like Hermione. A small, narrow glass-fronted bookcase sits beside the door, more books piled on top of it, an eclectic mix of legal codes and research tomes on magical theory along with the occasional Muggle book on, oddly enough, neuroscience. Her desk is bare, save for a paper calendar blotter with a Ryman logo on the bottom and a small framed photograph of Ron waving at them both from a Tuscany hillside. 

Harry glances back over at Hermione, thinking back to what Whitaker'd told him the other day about Dolohov. He hasn't brought it up yet, hasn't wanted to know what Hermione knows about it. It's moments like this when he realises she's an Unspeakable, that she keeps secrets from them all, and Harry wonders how long it'll be before Draco does the same, how long before Harry gets that quick and furtive glance from his boyfriend when Harry asks something about a case, then an easy, friendly, but firm change of subject. Perhaps it's already happened, and Harry hadn't noticed because he'd been so worried about Lestrange this week. He scratches a thumbnail across one bent knuckle. He wants to ask Ron how he does it, how he learnt to trust Hermione again, to let her have those secrets from him. The thought of Draco's gaze sliding away from Harry's, of Draco giving him a half-answer to his questions about work tightens Harry's shoulders, makes Harry's stomach hurt. He doesn't want this job to come between them; he suspects it already has. 

"Are you torturing Antonin Dolohov?" Harry asks bluntly, and he knows the anger behind his words is partially from his unease at Draco being a part of this all, being caught beneath Saul Croaker's thumb. 

Hermione blinks. "What?"

In for Knut, in for a Galleon, Harry thinks, and he sits forward, his elbows tucked tight against his chest, as if he can protect himself from her answer. "Are you feeding him?"

"Of course we are." Hermione looks genuinely confused. "There was that unfortunate incident with the door and Pan--" She stops before she finishes the name, and her eyes narrow. She folds her arms, mimicking Harry's own posture. "But that's been taken care of." She watches Harry, and her brow furrows. "What exactly are you implying?"

"Whitaker thinks Dolohov's not being fed," Harry says, and he doesn't take his gaze from Hermione's face. He doesn't always know when she's lying, but he thinks he might this time. 

She stills, looking at him. "That would break the Lausanne Conventions regarding prisoner treatment. We'd have the ICW on us--"

"In a gnome's heartbeat, yeah." Harry studies her. He thinks she's surprised by the accusation. "So you're saying you're not starving him."

Hermione's face closes off; the look she gives him is venomous. "I can't believe you'd even suspect I'd go along with something like that, Harry James Potter." She pushes herself off the edge of her desk and strides around the side, her chunky heels thudding softly against the thick carpet. Her shoulders are hunched, her mouth a thin line. "Antonin Dolohov is being treated like any other detainee--"

"You lot bang about all your prisoners then?" Harry asks, his voice soft, and Hermione flinches, looks away. "Bruise their faces up that badly on the reg?"

She sits across from him, the tidy, smooth surface of the desk only highlighting the wide gulf between them. "I hardly think you can be throwing stones, Harry, given what's happened in the Auror holding cells as of late." Hermione doesn't look at him; she flattens her palms against her desk blotter. There's a tea stain in the bottom corner, a neat khaki circle surrounded by droplet spatters. "And as I said, our issue's been taken care of." Her voice is cool and just sharp enough to make Harry know that pressing the issue would be a very stupid decision.

Then again, Harry's not really known for making the best life choices, is he?

"Whitaker's not wrong though, is she? About your lot starving him?" Harry watches Hermione closely; the corners of her mouth go down. "Hermione, are you--"

"No," Hermione says again, a tremor of anger underlying the word, and this time she looks over at Harry. Her gaze is troubled, uncertain. "If that's happening, it's not under my command."

"But Croaker." Harry stops. He leans forward in his chair. "He might."

Hermione hesitates, then she nods. "He might," she agrees. "He won't have stopped feeding him entirely, but there are procedures that are occasionally put into place…" She trails off, not looking at Harry. "It's almost never done," she says after a moment, and she rubs at a non-existent smudge on her desk. The furrow's back between her brows. "I've never seen it be instituted, but when it is, there are supposedly papers that the Minister has to sign off on. I've read the Wizengamot act about it." She glances up, and Harry can tell she's getting agitated. "With certain prisoners, the Department of Mysteries would have the legal right to apply…" She bites her lip, then says, "Pressure. But only in times of national crisis and only with the Minister's approval. There's an entire protocol in place, Harry. There's no way Saul would start something like that without me knowing."

To be honest, Harry's not so bloody certain of that. He just looks at her, and Hermione glances away, reaching up to tug at the small golden hoop in her earlobe.

"He wouldn't," Hermione says again, but there's a hint of doubt in her voice. She drops her hand, leans forward across her desk. "Would he?" The question's almost a whisper.

"I don't know," Harry says, and Hermione glances at him, her lips pressing together. "But are you angrier that he might not tell you or that he might be doing it?" He doesn't look away.

Hermione's silent at first, then she takes a deep breath, exhales. "It bothers me more that you don't know the answer to that question," she says, her voice quiet. She meets Harry's steady gaze. "But then again, perhaps I haven't been the most forthcoming friend in recent months."

"Being an Unspeakable changes you in a way," Harry says. He understands. It's the same for Aurors. You're exposed to a certain type of criminal element for a while, and you get jaded. Start to put people into boxes. Criminal. Upstanding citizen. Death Eater. You forget, perhaps, that human beings are a bit more complicated than those boxes. That sometimes criminals can do the right thing, that sometimes upstanding citizens can be viciously cruel, that sometimes Death Eaters can hate their Marked skin. Draco's reminded Harry how complex the world can be; Harry will always be grateful to him for that lesson. 

Hermione gives Harry a faint smile. "It does," she says, and she twists her fingers together, looking down at them. Her nails are a bright red, each one filed into a smooth, shiny oval. Harry wants to reach across the desk, to lay his hand over hers. He doesn't. Not yet at least. 

"I'll look into Dolohov," Hermione says after a moment. "He's a bastard, but he shouldn't be treated like that. If Saul's condoned it, I'll make him back down." She looks up at Harry. "Does that answer your question?"

Relief rushes through Harry. He hadn't thought Hermione of all people would countenance prisoner mistreatment, not like that at least, although the fact that she's not fazed by the protocols being available bothers him a bit. But, then again, she's an Unspeakable. It's different down here, he thinks, where they're hidden away from everyone else. 

"Thanks," Harry says, and he pushes himself out of his chair. "I'm glad."

"I can't promise anything." Hermione stands as well. "Saul sometimes does whatever he wants to do, the consequences be damned."

Harry's aware of that. "I can have Whitaker file a report with the ICW if it'll help."

"Not yet." Hermione rubs the back of her neck. She looks tired. "Let me handle it first." Harry's nearly at the door when Hermione says, "This job will change him, you know." When Harry looks back, she adds, "Malfoy."

"I know." Harry stops, his hand on the doorknob. "I've already dated an Unspeakable."

Hermione shakes her head. "It wasn't the same. You never really lived with Jake. He might have shared your bed, but he never really shared your life, did he?"

"I'm not living with Draco either yet," Harry says, and Hermione gives him a half-smile. Harry doesn't think about Grimmauld Place and the way it lights up when Draco's there, the way the wood gleams and the lights are warmer and the whole damned house practically purrs the moment Draco steps through the Floo. Harry understands; he feels just as empty and cold when Draco's not around. Still, there are things Harry doesn't want to admit, doesn't want to say out loud. Not even to Hermione, despite the gentle look she's giving him. Harry turns away.

"Tell yourself whatever you need to, love," Hermione says softly. "But I'm not blind."

Harry wants to protest, wants to tell her she's wrong, that she's no idea what's between him and Draco. Except he thinks perhaps Hermione does, in ways that make Harry uncomfortable and uncertain. He hesitates, then says, "Be careful with him. He's fragile right now. More than he'll admit."

"It's to be expected." Hermione folds her arms across her chest. She looks a bit pensive. "Muriel's keeping an eye on him."

Frankly, Harry's not certain that's enough. Not the way Draco's been the past few days. He doesn't think protesting will help, though. Draco's training is Unspeakable business, and there's only so far Hermione will let Harry interfere. He doesn't blame her. He'd be the same if the shoe was on the other foot. 

So he nods, and says "Thanks" again as Hermione comes around the side of her desk. She puts a hand on his arm. 

"Don't worry so much," Hermione says. "I won't let anything happen to him. I promise."

Harry doesn't really know if that's a promise she can keep. Still, he's grateful to Hermione for the sentiment at least. He sighs. "All right." It's not the most gracious response, he thinks, but it's all he can manage at the moment. "Walk me back out?"

"You know I have to." Hermione smiles up at him. Harry wonders what would happen if an Unspeakable found him wandering the hallways on his own, how angrily he'd be escorted out, his status as the Saviour of the Wizarding World notwithstanding. Saul Croaker's still narked at him for the whole debacle at the end of fifth year, and the destruction of all those bloody prophecy spheres. To be honest, Harry's half-surprised the man agreed to hire Hermione, given her part in that cock-up. 

And then Harry feels a stab of guilt. Lucius Malfoy had been arrested in the Department of Mysteries, sent to Azkaban for a year. Would Draco's life have been different if Harry hadn't come here that night? Would Sirius still be alive? 

Sometimes Harry remembers how young and foolish they'd all been, all the mistakes they'd made, so certain that no one else could stop the war, that the adults weren't listening. He doesn't know how Dumbledore could have let them do the things they'd done; Harry would try everything he could to keep kids away from any of this. He wouldn't fucking throw them into the middle of it all with no help, no information, nothing to keep them safe. 

Maybe that's something to talk with Freddie about as well, Harry thinks, and he folds his arms across his chest, hunches his shoulders. He's still so bloody angry about it all.

The corridors are still empty as they walk back to the lobby. Harry wonders how he almost never sees anyone in them when he's down here, wonders if there's some sort of warning for strangers in the hallways, keeping the Unspeakables safely tucked away behind these rows of identical doors. He'd hate being one of them, he thinks, and he doesn't know how Draco stands it. The Unspeakables are a cold lot in Harry's opinion. There's no pickup Quidditch league like there is amongst the Aurors, no gatherings around the tea cart. Do they even have tea service down here? Harry considers asking Hermione, but she'll think it frivolous, he's sure. So he walks silently beside her, losing track of the twists and turns of the corridor until they're back at the tall, carved ebony door that leads to the stark, deserted lobby.

Hermione stops, looks over at Harry. "Stay away from Griselda Marchbanks," she says, her voice low. "You don't want to get tangled up in that bollocks, Harry. Everyone thinks her a dotty old fool, but she's a viper." She glances down at his hand. "She'll use that against you, if she can."

That's what worries Harry, but he's not going to let Hermione know. "I'll be fine." He gives her a small smile. "I'm Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, yeah?"

Hermione doesn't laugh; the furrow in her forehead just deepens. "And that's precisely the problem."

A shiver goes through Harry. "Do you know something I don't?"

For a moment, he thinks Hermione's going to tell him, but then her gaze shifts, and she shakes her head. She's lying, he knows, but it won't do any good to press her. Not at the moment at least. Not here. "Just be careful, Harry. You and Malfoy both. Keep your heads low." She stops, then adds quickly, "Don't come in at the same time from the same Floo. You'll be noticed. Understand?"

Harry does. "We're trying--"

"Try harder." Hermione's face is sober. Worried. "Trust me on this." She pushes the door to the lobby open. "Please."

"But--"

There's a noise down the corridor, the echo of laughter, and Hermione pushes Harry through the doorway. "Just go."

And then Harry's on the other side of the door, and it's closing behind him, shutting Hermione away in the bowels of the Ministry. Harry stands in the cool, darkened lobby for a long moment, his thoughts swirling. He doesn't know what to do, what to think. 

Harry's never thought himself entirely good or bad at the politics of his job, but he's never really had to be one or the other. Not until now. Not until Draco. And the only thing he can think of actually doing is heading back upstairs and throwing himself back into the search for Rodolphus Lestrange. Nothing else seems bloody productive enough, if he's honest. He supposes he could fling himself into Kingsley's office, demand to know what the hell is going on with Marchbanks, and Dolohov, and fuck, whatever it is that Hermione's intimating about his and Draco's relationship. But that won't help, he suspects. What will, however, is finding that sodding uncle of Draco's. And that's proving bloody harder than Harry likes.

With a heavy sigh, Harry turns, heading for the steps up to the Atrium and its bank of lifts. 

He'll find Lestrange. Whatever it takes. He'll find the goddamned bastard.

Harry bloody well has to.

***

Jake makes his way through the last lingering throngs of the lunchtime rush in the Ministry commissary, all hail fellow well met, nodding and smiling and clapping the backs of the handful of Ministry workers he knows--almost all of them associated with the DMLE in some form. He's tired and drained and fucking starving, and he just wants to grab food and sit for a moment before he has to squirrel himself away in one of the secure-connection diplomatic Floo rooms on the Minister's floor to firecall Tom bloody Graves and tell him...what, exactly? That he's spent the past few days feeding the Dementors off his own energy force? Tom'll be thrilled about that, Jake thinks, and he steels himself for another round of arguing with the Director of Magical Security.

He fills his tray with plates of rice and curry chicken, potatoes and roast, thick browned sausages. A limp salad makes it on as well, the bits of arugula--rocket, they call it here--mangled, the tomatoes a bit squished and soggy. Still, it's vegetables, a splash of green and red against the muted pallor of his other food, and Jake's grateful for it. It's better than what he's been eating in the Azkaban staff rooms lately, and really, commissary food's commissary food wherever the hell in the world one finds oneself. 

Tonight he'll treat himself to a proper dinner, Jake thinks. A good thick and bloody steak at the hotel restaurant, along with a bourbon, both horribly overpriced, but it'll go on his expense account. He stops at the beverage station to fill a thick pottery mug with hot tea from a steaming teapot. That's one thing he appreciates the most about London. You can't get a decent tea in the States; the limescale in the water here just makes the tea fucking better. Jake's thought about how to replicate it back home, wondered if there was some way to add a bit of lime to his mug with the water, but he doesn't think it'd work the same. And he'd probably poison himself or something fucking stupid in the process. 

He sighs. Goddamn, but he's exhausted. It takes it out of you, dealing with the Dementors the way they've been. He knows why Dee wanted a team of Legilimens. It's not just being able to feel the last remnants of humanity in them--much less see them, the way Jake can. It's also the fact that Legilimens can control their energy in ways other wizards might not be able to do, can siphon off bits of it without being overwhelmed and overcome by the creatures' hunger. 

Or at least Jake and Muriel Burke can. Jake's not so certain about Malfoy. He's a new Legilimens, one who only barely has a handle on that fucking enormous well of natural talent he has, and Jake's been watching him struggle for the past two days. He's even argued with Muriel about whether or not Malfoy should be there with them. He knows why she's doing it. It's like being thrown into another country when you want to learn a language; being forced to communicate, however brokenly, when you want to eat builds up fluency faster than classroom learning. It's the same with Legilimency in a way. You can learn all the magical theory you'd like, but that's no substitution for actually using the skills in the field. 

Still, this isn't like language immersion. It's more dangerous, and Jake's worried that Malfoy's spreading himself too thin, taking too much on this early in his training. Sure, Malfoy's better than he'd been on Tuesday morning--he's not falling to his fucking knees every few minutes--but Malfoy's a seeping spring of grief, and anyone who thinks Dementors only feed off of happy emotions is a goddamn idiot. They take them all, sucking them in hungrily, remembering as they do so what it'd felt like to be human once. The problem is that you only notice the happy feelings being gone, don't you? Nobody really pays attention to the sadness or anger the Dementors might bleed away; the loss of any happiness along with them is so much more profound. 

Besides, it's Jake's experience that most humans have a hell of a lot more negative emotions lurking beneath the surface than anyone's willing to admit. It's a rare person who's truly happy, enough so that they notice that sadness being pulled away as well. Jake himself's only caught it faintly, felt the tug of it sliding out of his mind while he's concentrating on keeping part of himself bottled away from the Dementors. 

Muriel'd told him to fuck off when he'd worried about Malfoy's state of mind. Fair enough, he thinks. She's his trainer, after all. Not Jake. But it doesn't keep Jake from checking in on Malfoy when he can. The poor bastard's grieving after all. Even setting aside his fledgling Legilimency skills, Malfoy's a writhing mass of emotion. Jake can see it written across his goddamn face, can see the way the Dementors turn to Malfoy first, their hunger sending them drifting towards him. Malfoy's giving too much, and it worries Jake, especially with how drawn and pale Malfoy looks at the end of the day when they walk out of that goddamn grim fortress, still carrying the trauma of all those fucking souls on their shoulders, the lot of them. 

Jake wants to tell Malfoy to go home, to not come back again for a day or two, but it's not his place. And Malfoy wouldn't listen, Jake's sure of that. He brushes off Jake's concern as it is, brusquely telling Jake he's fine, thanks ever so. Jake hadn't wanted to leave him at Azkaban today, but Malfoy hadn't given him a choice. He'd insisted on staying with Dee and Muriel, and Jake had finally thrown up his hands and left.

Goddamn stubborn Brits. That fucking asshole's going to push himself too far, and then Jake's going to have to deal with Harry on his ass about it, and that's the last thing Jake needs right now. He already has Tom Graves coming after him for being goddamn useless, but Jesus, what's Jake supposed to do? All he can tell Tom today is that he's growing more and more certain that Azkaban's going to fall soon, that the prisoners inside of it are going to be moved into ICW custody for the foreseeable future. It'll be a diplomatic slap in the face of the British Ministry, and Jake's pretty sure it's not going to go over well here in London. Even Tomás is aware of that, but he's told Jake quietly that his hands are tied, as are Nadia Daifallah's. Their bosses in Brussels and Luxembourg are furious with the Brits, and they're wanting to make an example of them. 

Frankly, Jake thinks it's more an interest in embarrassing the UK, of putting the country back under the thumb of the ICW itself. The British Ministry's been throwing its weight around for decades in the confederation, and there are folks who have long memories tucked away in the inner offices of Luxembourg, ones who haven't forgiven them for the death and destruction brought about by Voldemort. Germany's only just coming out from under the cloud of Gellert Grindelwald, after all. Jake's heard enough quiet murmurs in the Luxembourg corridors over the years about Britain putting its house in order, none of them said directly to any of the British delegation, of course. Jake had tried to warn Harry once, but he'd brushed it off, said that Britain hadn't done anything, that they'd brought the Death Eaters down, for Christ's sake.

Really, Harry's never been any fucking good at the underhanded politics of international wizardom. 

Jake turns towards the tables. Most of them are emptying out, the lunch hour starting to draw to a close. He thinks about sitting in the corner by himself, enjoying the quietness of solitude for a bit, and then a familiar face catches his eye. 

Fuck, Jake thinks, and he almost turns away, but he's not that much of a coward. Not quite. 

So he walks over to where Blaise is sitting across from Althea Whitaker. 

"Hi," Jake says, and they both look up at him, Blaise's face going instantly blank, the smile he'd just turned towards Althea sliding away. Jake doesn't blame him; he's been a shit lately, he knows that. 

Althea looks between them, a bit uncomfortably, then starts to stand. "On that note," she says, "I've work to do."

Blaise grabs her wrist. "It can wait."

"No," Althea says, pulling away as she shakes her head. "It really can't." She picks up her tray and glances over at Jake. "Good to see you, Durant." Jake's not so certain she means it, especially when she looks back at Blaise and says, "Come find me when you're done."

"Traitor." Blaise isn't looking at Jake.

"It's for your own good." Althea steps away, her chair still pushed out a bit. "And I reckon a public confrontation's less likely to leave one of you maimed." Her gaze flicks towards Jake, and he knows full well she's sceptical about his ability not to be the one hurt. Frankly, he doesn't disagree. He can feel Blaise's fury from across the table. 

And then Althea's walking away, and Blaise sinks back in his chair, the perfect picture of bored irritation, if Jake didn't fucking know better. 

Jake sets his tray down, and Blaise eyes it. "You're going to go to fat if you keep eating like that," Blaise says, with more than a bit of a spiteful tone. 

"Durants have a high metabolism," Jake says as he takes Althea's empty chair. It's still a bit warm from her ass. "And Legilimency makes me hungry." He scoops up a forkful of the curried chicken and shoves it in his mouth. At least if he's eating, he doesn't have to talk. The chicken's surprisingly mild, and he frowns down at it, wishing the kitchen'd done more than drag a chili or two through the sauce. He misses his mother's Cajun food, with its spicy heat, and the sudden wash of grief that goes through him is surprising. He ought to have expected it, he thinks. Working this closely with Dementors brings old pain to the fore sometimes. 

Blaise is just watching him from across the table. Jake thinks it's a good thing that Blaise hasn't left yet, or gone for his wand, but Blaise's unhappy silence sets Jake's nerves on edge, more than he'd like. 

"Aren't you supposed to be at Azkaban?" Blaise asks, after a moment. He lifts his glass of water to his mouth and takes a sip. 

Jake pushes his fork through the limp arugula. "Left early." He glances up at Blaise. "It's nearly nine New York time." At Blaise's blank look, Jake adds, "I have a firecall scheduled with Graves."

"Here's hoping he calls your pathetic arse back home," Blaise says, and there's a raw, rough edge to his voice that makes Jake's shoulders tense. He tries to shake the unease off, but he can't. Not entirely. 

They sit silently across from each other for a long moment, and then Jake puts his fork down and sighs. "We should talk."

Blaise looks away. "I've nothing to say."

Oh, but Jake thinks he does. 

Jake can feel the emotions shifting through Blaise, the faint curls of them twisting up, coiling over the edges of Blaise's mind. Anger. Unhappiness. Desire. Jake takes a deep breath, leans forward. 

"I wanted to call you earlier." He's been thinking about Blaise since he'd seen him Monday morning, perched on the edge of the Atrium fountain. Every night when Jake's slipped beneath the thick white comforter on his hotel bed, he's remembered what it'd been like in the Millenium Hilton, their bodies tangled together beneath those rumpled sheets, Blaise hot and gasping beneath him, pushing himself against Jake's body. It nearly takes Jake's breath away, even now, sitting here beneath the cold bright lights of the commissary. Jake runs a hand through his hair, feeling the thick, coarse curls slip over his fingers. He drops his hand and sighs. 

Blaise turns his water glass between his fingers, pushing it across the worn birch tabletop. It leaves behind a smear of wetness. "You've had a few days." He picks up his glass and takes another sip from it, again, not looking at Jake, but he hasn't stood up yet, which Jake still takes as a good sign. Maybe. 

Christ, sometimes Jake doesn't know what to think when it comes to Blaise. He's fucking contrary, and, really, Jake shouldn't find that so goddamn attractive. Eddie's right. Jake's always had shit taste in men.

"Been at Azkaban," Jake says after a moment. He's watching Blaise, studying the slope of his shoulders beneath his white shirt, the crispness of the fabric against his brown skin. Blaise's black tie is knotted at his collar, the silk perfectly folded and puckered in a half-Windsor. Jake reaches for his mug of tea. "That place wears you out."

"I suppose." Blaise looks over at him then, a flicker of interest in his eyes. "My grandfather says the Dementors are difficult."

"They take a lot of energy." Jake sips his tea. He feels like he's working with a skittish colt here; it's all he can do to keep himself steady, trying his best not to spook Blaise too much. "I've been coming back to the hotel in the evenings and falling asleep over room service." It's not far off the truth, really. Jake's just omitting the few times he's jerked off beforehand, coming with Blaise's name on his lips.

"Poor you," Blaise says. He doesn't particularly sound sympathetic, Jake thinks.

Silence stretches out between them again. Blaise looks down at his plate, drags his fork through the remnants of sausages and mashed potatoes. Comfort food, Jake realises, and he glances up at Blaise's set face. Jake exhales, then says before he can think better of it, "I've missed you, you know."

Blaise's gaze flicks up towards him. "You've an odd way of showing it." He takes a bite of sausage, but Jake thinks it's more for something to do than anything else. Blaise chews slowly, looks back down at his plate. "Look," he says after a moment. "We don't have to do this. I know you're working with my grandfather--"

"And your best friend," Jake says, and he regrets it the moment Blaise glances back up at him. Jake sighs again. "That's not what I mean. I want to talk to you, but not because of them." He picks his fork back up again, spears a bit of curried chicken. It's lukewarm now and just as bland, but Jake eats it. He's hungry and tired, and his head's starting to throb from all the tension roiling off Blaise. He swallows. "I don't know what to do here," he says finally. "This is complicated, Blaise--"

"That's not my fault." Blaise shifts in his chair, and fuck if there's not a hint of feathers and sharp talons in the way he moves. Jake knows what an angry Veela looks like, the way the creature can ripple beneath the human surface. He'd seen it years ago in Moira, and fuck but it'd turned him on. It still does. There's part of Jake that foolishly wants to push Blaise, to make him angrier, to hear that harsh rasp in his voice again. 

Jesus, Jake thinks, what a fucking stupid idea. 

Still, he watches Blaise, feels the roil of the Veela rising up, and it takes Jake's breath away. This isn't healthy, he suspects, but he doesn't care because Blaise is glorious, beautiful and powerful, and Jake can't tear his gaze away. 

Jake's throat is dry. He coughs, then sips his tea again, drawing in an uneven breath. And then he meets Blaise's bright eyes, and Jake gives in, lets his mind open up, lets Blaise feel how goddamned turned on Jake is, how much Jake wants to drag Blaise back to his hotel, to bury his prick inside of Blaise, to let Blaise ride him until they're both breathless and sweaty, their hearts pounding with want. 

Blaise breathes in sharply. Looks away. "You arsehole," he says, and there's a brokenness to his voice that makes Jake want to reach across the table, to pull him close. "That's not what I want."

It is, though, and they both know it. Blaise's hand trembles as he pushes his plate back. It hits his water glass with a soft clank against the pottery, and Blaise catches the glass before it tips. Water sloshes up the sides. 

Jake can't stop himself from reaching out, his fingers curling over Blaise's. Blaise stills. They look at each other. Blaise's skin is warm and soft beneath Jake's hand, and Jake can feel the soft thud of his pulse in his throat. "I want you," Jake says. "It's never been about that."

Blaise doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away either. A shiver goes through him as Jake rubs his thumb over Blaise's knuckle; Jake can feel the faint tremor in Blaise's hand. Jakes doesn't want to let go. He wants to hold on, to keep Blaise still for as long as he can. 

"Then why?" Blaise asks, and Jake can hear the whisper of Veela wings in the quiet words. It frightens Jake a bit, pulls at him, and Jake wonders if this is a compulsion, if somehow Blaise is pulling him to him, if this isn't about what Jake wants any longer. But he knows it is, knows that this feeling has been the same, deep inside of him, for days, with Blaise and without him. "It's not as if I've shoved you away. Rather the opposite, in fact." Blaise's mouth twists down into a frown. "You're the one who's been a shit--"

"You're working for my ex," Jake says, giving in to his exasperation. "You can't tell me that's not complicated."

Blaise just looks at him. "And you're working with the man who replaced you in Potter's bed," he says after a moment, "so tell me how that's going, yeah?"

Jake lets his hand slip away. He misses the warmth of Blaise's fingers beneath his. "Point made," he says, his voice quiet. It surprises him a bit how little that jab hurt. Jake watches Blaise across the table, and he wonders if he's moving past Harry finally. It's been almost three months now, Jake realises in surprise, and he glances up at Blaise, studying his high cheekbones and dark eyes. He's beautiful, Jake thinks, and so goddamn out of Jake's league. 

"If I asked you to dinner," Jake says, not looking away from Blaise's face, "would you go?" 

Blaise is silent. Jake can feel the soft thump of his heart, the hot prickle of embarrassment going across his skin as Blaise doesn't answer. Jake leans back in his chair. 

"Forget it," Jake starts to say, and then Blaise leans forward, pulls a quill from his pocket. 

"Napkin," Blaise says, and Jake hands over one of the paper napkins from his tray. Blaise scrawls something on it, then pushes it across the table to Jake. There's an address scrawled across it, one Jake doesn't recognise. "My club," Blaise says, looking at Jake. "I'll be there Saturday evening by nine. You can buy me a drink. We'll see what happens after that."

Jake folds the napkin, tucks it into his pocket. "All right." He doesn't know what else to say. 

Blaise pushes his chair back, stands. "I'm not sure I should trust you, Jake Durant." His voice is a soft rumble, rough and raw across Jake's skin, making goosebumps rise across Jake's arms. He looks vicious and gorgeous, and Jake's prick's swelling already, pushing against the zipper of his trousers. Jake can't look away. 

"Maybe you shouldn't," Jake says, and he swears he sees a flash of tawny gold in the brown of Blaise's gaze, bright and quick and oh so reminiscent of his grandfather. Jake thinks he ought to be afraid. He isn't. 

There's the soft clink of cutlery against the plate as Blaise picks them both up. "It's stupid of me, I'm certain," Blaise says, and then he hesitates, his fingers curling around his nearly empty glass. He studies Jake. "The funny thing to me is that everyone thinks I just want a tumble here and there. That I'm not interested in anything else." His voice cracks, but just barely, and Jake can feel the unexpected misery seeping out, a faint, careful curl of sadness that settles around Blaise's shoulders. "But it's not true. It's just the Veela they feel. What I want is something more. I want what my best friend has," Blaise says, and he doesn't look away from Jake. "Someone to look at me the way Potter looks at Draco." 

If he's expecting Jake to flinch, Jake doesn't. The words don't even sting. "I wanted that, too," Jake says quietly. "Harry couldn't give it to me."

"But will you ever let anyone else?" Blaise asks. "Because the way I see it, Jake, I've been pretty fucking upfront about us--"

"About the sex," Jake says, and he knows it's the wrong thing the moment the words come out of his mouth. Blaise's face closes off. "I didn't mean--"

"You did." Blaise picks up his glass. "Because that's all I'm good for, right?" He shakes his head. "All right then. Buy me a drink on Saturday, and I'll shag you, Jake Durant. Because I like your prick, and I'm randy as fuck."

Lonely, Jake thinks. The same as he is. "Blaise--"

Blaise takes a step back. "You know, for all you went about sniffing after the guv, saying you wanted something more permanent from him...well. I don't think you actually did." He's watching Jake, his mouth a thin line. "You didn't fight for him when the time came. You let him go, like you were glad to be free again, and I don't think you were ever in love with him like you claim you were. Not really. Not the way you ought to have been." His voice softens, ripples across Jake like the flutter of feathers. "But that's the problem, isn't it? You're afraid of that. Afraid of love, you poor bastard." 

Jake can't look away from Blaise. His throat's tight, his hands clenched on the table, his fingernails digging into his palms. 

"Sex is all you know," Blaise says, and there's a tinge of contempt in his voice. "So if that's what you want from me, that's what you'll get."

And then there's an image pushing into Jake's mind of Blaise on his stomach, arse in the air, knees spread wide, a thick plug pressed deep into Blaise's hole, stretching him, the skin of his crease slick with lube. It's intimate, erotic, and Jake can barely breathe, can barely think, can only feel the lust rushing through him, tempting him to reach for Blaise, to pull him across the table, to have him here. Now. In front of the whole goddamn Ministry if he has to. 

Jake draws in a ragged gasp as the image fades, and he's looking up at Blaise, his cheeks hot, his body shaking. Blaise is stone-faced. "That's not," Jake tries to say, but the words catch in the back of his throat. 

_That's not what I want._

But it is, and he knows it. And Blaise is right in a way. Jake's afraid. He'd fallen for Harry because Harry was safe. Harry wouldn't push Jake, wouldn't make Jake uncomfortable, wouldn't ever send Jake's pulse racing like this in the middle of the fucking Ministry commissary. 

Blaise Zabini's not safe. Not at all. 

Jake could fall for Blaise, and he probably has already. He knows this, and he shoves that thought into the deepest recess of his mind. Blaise terrifies Jake; Jake wants to think it's nothing but sex, that he could fall into bed again with this man and it'd mean nothing. He knows that's a goddamn lie. 

And now Blaise is looking at him, like Jake's a fucking jackass, and Jake probably is, he thinks. If Jake had any goddamn sense, he'd run. Go back to New York. Take whatever punishment Tom Graves might hand him for being such a fucking shit coward. But he can't. He can't even look away from Blaise, can't deny anything he's said. Jake licks his bottom lip, watches the way Blaise's eyes narrow at him, the way Blaise's jaw tenses. He wants to tell Blaise he's wrong, wants to tell him how fucking scared he is of what this is between them, wants to tell him about the pull Jake feels, the need he has to be pressed against Blaise, to breathe in the scent of him, to taste his skin against his tongue. 

Jake stays silent. 

Blaise sighs. "Tomorrow then," he says. "You sodding arsehole."

He's gone. 

Jake sinks back in his chair, his hands trembling as he flattens them against the table. He looks around. No one's noticed them, he thinks. The handful of other Ministry workers nearby are talking amongst themselves, completely unaware of what's happened here. Jake feels ill, shaky. He wants to get up, wants to run after Blaise, wants to beg him to understand, to take Jake wherever he wants, to do whatever he'd like. Jake closes his eyes and breathes. The ache of it fades, but only a bit. 

He's losing his mind, Jake thinks. And yet he knows where he'll be on Saturday evening. 

The sharp twist of hunger through his stomach pulls him back to his food. He eats, quickly, barely tasting what he's shovelling into his mouth. Food is just fuel right now, and he wants to finish, to put his tray back and to lock himself away for a few minutes before he has to face down Tom Graves. Jake doesn't know if he can deal with MACUSA today; he thinks about forgetting to make the firecall, wonders how furious Graves would be with him. He doesn't really give a fuck right now; he wants to back to the hotel, wants to fall into his bed and wank himself raw before slipping into a deep sleep. 

It'd be so damn easy, he thinks. 

The cell phone in his pocket rings. Jake frowns, then fishes it out, flipping the clamshell open to check the number. His heart stutters when he sees the digits scrolling across the screen. 

"Eddie," he says into the phone, and he hears the pop and hiss of magic interfering with the connection. He stands up, carries his tray to the bins on the side of the commissary. "Eddie, can you hear me?"

His brother's voice crackles in his ear. "Asshole, I finally got you." Eddie sounds relieved.

"You did." Jake sets his tray down, glances around to make sure no one's listening to him as he slips out of the commissary. "Where the goddamn fuck are you?" He hasn't heard from his brother in weeks; he's at least relieved Eddie's alive. That's more than he'd hoped for, really.

"Can't say." Eddie hesitates, then he adds, "You alone?"

Jake heads out into the Atrium. The reception's better here, he knows, and if he stands near the fountain, he should block out most of the listening charms set by the Department of Mysteries. "Pretty much." He hesitates, then says, "Tell me you haven't done anything stupid."

Eddie's silent for a moment, then he says, "Aw, Pichouette, you know I can't do that."

"Goddamn it, Ed." Jake sits on the edge of the fountain. It splashes behind him. "What have you done?"

"What I told you I was gonna do." Eddie sighs over the popping connection. "Make things right. For Billy. And you--"

Jake's fucking tired of this. "Dis-moi la vérité, asshole."

There's silence for a moment. "I am, vieux."

Frankly, that's a load of shit, and they both know it. Jake sighs. "I can't do this." He's too fucking tired. "Don't play games with me."

"I'm not trying to," Eddie says. "But I'm--" He breaks off, and Jake's heart stutters in his chest. 

"Ed--" Jake's voice rises.

And then Eddie's back. "I'm all right. Sorry. I just have to be careful--"

"What the fuck are you up to?" Jake's done with his brother. "I swear to God, I'm going to slap the shit out of you, and then call up old lady Delafosse and tell her to put a gris-gris on you--"

"I'm doing what I have to." Eddie sounds pissed off now. "I don't want to be doing it, Pichouette. I want to be sitting on the goddamn beach down in Tampa, smoking a bowl, but I fucked up and now I'm caught."

That draws Jake up short. "Caught how?"

"Better you don't know." There's a regretful tinge to Eddie's voice. "You still in London?"

"How'd you know I was here?" Jake's suspicious. He looks around the Ministry Atrium. No one's paying attention to him. No one's listening in. "Eddie?"

Eddie sighs. "I've seen you."

Which means… "You're in London." His brother's silent, and Jake swears. "Where are you?"

"Just shut up for a goddamn minute," Eddie snaps. "They're coming back, and I don't have much time--"

"Who?" Jake's voice is sharp. 

Eddie ignores him. "Something's going down, Jakey. I'm not exactly sure when or where, though I've got a good idea, and I'm pretty fucking sure you can't stop it, but I'll do my best. If I can't, well. I'll try to give you a heads-up or something, yeah? Whatever I can."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jake's standing now, gripping the phone so tightly that the edges are biting into his fingers. "You can't just--"

"All I know is there's a vault," Eddie says, "and they want something from it. I'll do my best, but--" He swears softly in French. "They're here. I'll call you back, Pichouette," and then he adds, "If I can."

The line goes dead. 

"Goddamn it," Jake says, and he tries to call his brother back, but the line goes straight to voicemail. 

Jake sinks back onto the edge of the fountain, looking down at the phone in his hand. A faint bit of smoke's curling out around the edges; Eddie's put up a hex around his number now, sending it back through the cellular lines. 

Fucking asshole, Jake thinks. It's going to take him all afternoon to stitch his phone wards back together.

But first he needs to find Hermione. He doesn't know what the fuck she can help him do, but he can't just sit on this information, and Eddie damn well knows it. 

He slaps the phone closed, his fingers tightening around it. Fucking goddamn hell, he thinks, and he starts off towards the steps leading down into the Department of Mysteries. 

Tom Graves will just have to wait.

***

Draco's cold and exhausted when he stumbles through the Floo at Grimmauld Place. It's only half-five, but he'd been fading towards the end of the afternoon, and Burke had forced Dee to pack up and send them both back to the Ministry. She hadn't let Draco linger in the training room; she'd waved him away when he'd sat at the desk, expecting their usual debriefing.

"Go home," Burke had said, her voice a bit scratchy, and Draco'd thought she'd seemed worn out herself. He worries about her, being up in the middle of the North Sea at her age. The cold of the stone fortress gets to her more than the others, and she'd spent more of her energy today than usual re-upping the warming charms on her jacket. "I'm certain there's someone waiting for you there on a Friday evening."

They've still never spoken of the flashes of Harry that Burke's seen in Draco's mind. Draco's not certain they ever will, not directly at least. But he's grateful to Burke when he sees Harry on one of the long, tufted leather chesterfields, his tie off, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. He has a glass of whisky in one hand, and he looks up as Draco shrugs out of his jacket, draping it across the arm of the sofa. 

"Hey," Harry says. His hair's rumpled, his jaw's a bit stubbled. Harry hadn't taken the time for a shaving charm this morning, Draco thinks, but he doesn't mind. He likes Harry a little scruffy and unkempt, not that he'd ever admit that to his friends. Or Harry. "How was work?"

Draco doesn't bother to answer at first. Instead, he walks over and plucks the glass from Harry's hand, taking a sip. The whisky burns his throat, smooth and quick, and Draco closes his eyes and breathes out before he hands the glass back to Harry. 

"That bad then," Harry says with a faint smile, and Draco sits beside him, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves, then loosening his tie, sliding it off. He tosses it on the coffee table in front of them.

"It could have been worse." Draco rubs at his face, not even caring that his sleeves are flopping open. He pushes his hair back, lets it slide through his fingers. Harry's hand settles on Draco's back, warm and wide and comforting, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles across Draco's shoulder blade. 

"Want to talk about it?" Harry asks, and his voice is gentle. 

Draco drops his hands, rolls up his sleeves. He frowns down at the mangled Dark Mark on his left forearm, folding the white cotton of his shirt back from it. The Mark hasn't really hurt for a bit, at least not badly, and Draco's grateful for that, but it's still a twisted stretch of black ink across his scarred skin. He rubs a thumb over it, feeling the slickness of the skin, the faint ache of the Mark itself as he presses his thumbnail into it. Draco wonders when it'll flare to life again, whether it'll take him by surprise like it did before. It's still thrumming beneath his skin; he can feel the magic of the curse deep inside of his arm. Sometimes he thinks it throbs when he's in Azkaban, but he can't be certain, at least not enough for him to want to mention it to Harry, to see that worried furrow form between Harry's brows again. 

"It's just tiring," Draco says after a moment, and he lets himself lean back, settle against Harry's side. He toes off his boots; they fall to the floor with a soft thud, and Draco pulls his socked feet up onto the chesterfield. The leather of the cushion creaks beneath him, and Harry's arm slips around his shoulders. 

The telly's on in the corner, the volume soft and muted. The screen's bright, the lush green of a football pitch filling it, broken by the blues and whites of the players' uniforms. It's an older match, Draco realises, one that Harry's charmed to record from one of the channels earlier in the week.

"Who's playing?" Draco asks. He's growing used to Harry's rituals, the way Harry likes to relax after work here with a bit of football and a glass or two of whisky. Sometimes Draco reads, curled up next to Harry like this. Sometimes he goes upstairs for a bath whilst Kreacher bangs about in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Harry's finally stopped objecting to that, once he'd realised that it made Kreacher happy. Draco knows that Harry gives Kreacher money each week--twenty Galleons or so--and that Kreacher takes it, bemused, and just tucks it away in his room behind the pantry because, as he'd said to Draco once, what use does he have of it? Still, it's a sign of Kreacher's devotion to Harry that the elf doesn't protest, Draco thinks. 

Harry looks over at Draco. His fingers are toying with the ends of Draco's hair, wrapping it around his thumb before letting it slip free. "Tottenham and Chelsea," he says, as if that means anything to Draco, but he smiles, and the warmth of it nearly takes Draco's breath away. Draco loves these quiet moments between them, this feeling he has that their lives are twining together. He's never had this sort of intimacy with a lover, never wanted to share his time and space this way. Pansy and Blaise would think him mad, Draco's certain, if they knew Draco hadn't been in his own flat in days. He ought to, he supposes, but each night he finds himself Flooing here instead. 

Draco wonders if there'll be a night Harry objects, tells him to go home. Merlin, but he hopes not.

He leans back into the warmth of Harry. When he's here like this Draco doesn't feel so unsettled, the way he has all day. Harry grounds him, makes Draco feel safe, keeps his thoughts from spinning off into the petty neuroses Draco knows he indulges himself in. Harry's solid and stable, and Draco can hear the soft beat of Harry's heart when he turns his head towards Harry's chest. 

They sit quietly for a while, and Draco blankly watches the figures moving across the telly's screen. He doesn't understand football. It seems far more complicated than the simplicity that's Quidditch, but he knows it's something Harry enjoys, so he doesn't protest, not even when Harry groans and shifts beneath him, berating his Spurs, whatever they might be, for doing something idiotic, which they seem to do quite frequently. 

Harry's hand settles on Draco's shoulder, cups it. He finishes his whisky and sets his glass aside. Draco stays still, inhales the subtle smells of Harry, the peaty whiff of the whisky on his breath, the faint powdery musk of his cologne, the slight sour sweatiness of his skin, the lavender remnants of washing powder on his clothes. Draco likes the scent of Harry, the sharpness of him when Draco breathes Harry in. Harry smells like Harry, and Draco finds it bloody intoxicating, if he's honest with himself. 

"I'm glad you're here," Draco says after a moment, and he looks up at his boyfriend. "I like coming home to you." 

"Yeah?" Harry smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead. He smiles at him. "I like it when you do."

Warmth unfurls deep inside Draco. He feels his face flush, and he looks away, sighs a little. He rests his hand against Harry's shirt, twists his fingers a little in the folds of cotton. Harry's chest is firm against his palm. Strong. Draco wonders how he'll ever go on without Harry, once this is all over between them. He can't imagine it, doesn't want it to end. He knows it will. Harry will tire of him, the way everyone has. Draco can't imagine any other ending for him. He'd once thought Malfoys only had fairy tale lives. He'd outgrown that ridiculous fantasy soon enough. Lucius had helped with that, hadn't he?

The thought of his father sends a ripple of sadness through Draco. He rubs a finger over one of Harry's shirt buttons, rolling the edge across his fingernail. 

"What's wrong?" Harry asks, his voice soft. Draco almost wants Harry to shout at him, to not be so bloody careful with him, and he knows how idiotically contrary that is, but he can't help himself. He frowns, presses his face into Harry's chest, and breathes out. 

Draco doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to tell Harry what it's like in Azkaban, how he has to try to shut himself off, keep his emotions at bay whilst letting a few of them trickle through to satisfy the Dementors crowding around him. He doesn't know how to explain what it's like to be fed off of, to open himself up even the slightest bit to these creatures that he fears. He wants to hate them, wants to push them away, but he can't. And the more he lets the Dementors pull at his emotions, suck them from each breath he exhales, the more he feels connected to them, which unsettles him even more. 

Harry's fingers card through Draco's hair. "Love," Harry murmurs, and his thumb strokes along Draco's temple. "Tell me."

The lights dim around them, just a bit, shifting to a warmer glow, and Draco can hear the house settling, shifting. The sitting room feels cosier, more comfortable, and Draco wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn't dare. He knows the house is worried about him as well. Draco can smell dinner, roast and onions and potatoes, he thinks, drifting up from the kitchen. Harry's lips brush his forehead, and Draco feels oddly protected here, tucked away in Grimmauld Place with his boyfriend. He breathes out, lets himself relax. 

"It's just hard," Draco says after a moment. "With the Dementors. The things I sometimes feel…" He trails off, not certain how to describe it. Harry just waits, listens, his fingers still stroking across Draco's hair, a soft, steady caress. Draco sighs. "I'm never happy there," he says. "Not that I thought I'd be, but it's strange, standing with all of them around me, and knowing that whatever I think of that would make me happy outside of those walls--my mother, my friends…" He looks up at Harry. "You. I can't feel any of it. I just feel empty, I suppose."

"Sad?" Harry asks, and Draco considers. 

"A bit," he admits. "But it's not as if it's overwhelming. Not like it was the first day." Draco bites his lip, lets it slide out from between his teeth before he adds, "Burke says I'm better at keeping them at bay."

Harry's knuckles brush Draco's cheek. "That's good, yeah?"

"I suppose." Draco watches the embers glow in the hearth, shimmering between orange and green. He pleats Harry's shirt between his fingers, his thumb sliding beneath the placket, smoothing across Harry's warm skin. "I'm not as good as Durant." 

"You haven't trained as long as Jake has." Harry looks down at him. 

Draco shrugs. He's not certain how to explain that Harry's ex makes him nervous, that he wavers between liking Jake Durant and feeling as if he'll always be lacking in comparison. Perhaps he might have been able to make his peace if they didn't both share this Legilimency bond, Draco thinks. But it's not just measuring himself against Durant as Harry's lover now; it's also weighing himself now professionally against Durant's skill set, certain that he'll never be as talented, whatever the hell Muriel Burke might say. 

Harry'll never understand that. Harry's always been special, always been good at everything he'd touched. Except for Potions. That'd been the one thing Draco had clung to in their school days. Potter could never best him in that cold, rancid-smelling classroom. Until he had in sixth year, and Draco'd been so bloody angry at that, raging about Potter in Severus's quarters until Severus had thrown him out, telling him to calm down before he'd made a bloody fool of himself. 

Draco's not certain he'd managed that. Not in the end. 

They're both quiet now, then Draco sighs and says, "You'd think I'd hate them. The Dementors, I mean." 

"You don't?" Harry sounds a bit surprised. 

"I feel sorry for them," Draco says, and he's a bit taken aback himself. It's not something he expected when he'd first walked into Azkaban. "I can feel them, you know. The people they once were." He falls silent for a moment before looking up at Harry. "You'll think me mad, but sometimes I think I can see them when they look at me. It's ridiculous, and I'm not stupid enough to say anything to anyone else, but it's almost as if I can get a glimpse of a face beneath the hood."

He waits for Harry to laugh at him, to tell him he's being a fool. Harry doesn't. Instead he just watches Draco. "Does that frighten you?" Harry asks finally. 

Draco thinks. "Not really. Perhaps it should."

"Maybe." Harry twists a bit of Draco's hair around his fingertip. It's silver-gilt against his golden skin. "You know," he says quietly, "Sirius once told me that he survived the Dementors for so long by transforming into his Animagus form. As long as he could be a dog, they couldn't drain him the way they did the others. It kept him from going mad like your aunt." 

"I'm fairly certain Aunt Bella went round the bend long before they threw her into Azkaban," Draco says. He thinks of what Burke told him about his mother's older sister. "She was a Legilimens too, you know. Burke said something happened to her. Broke her."

Harry's finger stills. Draco's hair slides off it, falling against his shoulder. "Does that worry you?"

A bit, Draco wants to say, but instead he shakes his head. "I'm not her, am I?"

"Thank fuck," Harry murmurs, and Draco smiles faintly. He understands the sentiment. Harry pulls Draco closer, leans in and kisses him softly before he says, "I wouldn't stick my prick in that mad bint," and then Draco's sputtering, torn between laughing and pushing Harry away. 

"You're horrible," Draco says, and Harry just grins at him, kissing him again. Draco thinks he ought to pull back, tell Harry off for being such a twat, but instead he slides his arms around Harry's neck, lets Harry pull him across his lap as their kiss deepens. Draco could lie like this for hours, really, opening himself to Harry's lips, his tongue, arching up as Harry's hands slide down Draco's body, his fingers feather-light as they slip over the buttons of Draco's flies. 

Draco's half-hard already, and he nips at Harry's bottom lip, twists his hips as Harry's thumb strokes the length of Draco's prick through his trousers. He wants to fuck Harry here, sprawled across the wide leather cushions, his legs wrapped around Harry's hips as he whispers in Harry's ear, tells him how badly he wants Harry's cock splitting him wide. A shudder goes through Draco, hot and quivery, and he sighs softly into Harry's mouth, licks the edges of Harry's teeth. 

And then Harry's mobile is ringing, sharp and loud in the shadowed silence of the room, and Harry whispers, "Fuck," against Draco's lips. 

"Ignore it," Draco says, and his fingers are tangled in Harry's hair as he pulls him into another kiss. 

But Draco's mobile goes off then, buzzing in his pocket, the clang of its ringtone jolting in its suddenness, and Harry's pulling away, reaching for his mobile as Draco sits up, swearing and digging for his own. 

"What?" Draco snaps into the grey bit of plastic, and he stills when he hears Granger on the other end. He's half-aware of Harry's conversation beside him.

"There's been a break-in," Granger says, and then Draco just listens as she tells him what's happened, where he's to go. He closes his mobile and looks over at Harry, whose face is grim and set. 

"Gringotts?" Draco asks, and Harry nods, already rolling his sleeves down and buttoning them. Draco can see the Auror coming out in Harry, taking over, settling on his shoulders. 

"You?" Harry reaches for his boots, set neatly beside the chesterfield. 

Draco's pushing his feet into his own, wincing at the tightness. He's been standing too much today, he thinks. "Same."

And then they're both on their feet, pulling on their jackets, Harry's with his white inspector's piping, Draco's with his black Unspeakable stripes. They look at each other; Harry's face is as troubled as Draco thinks his must be. 

It's not that different for the two of them, Draco realises. They may not share a uniform any longer, or a team, but they're after the same end goal, really. To find Draco's sodding uncle and bring him in. The only question is which one of them will do it first. 

Draco's certain it's less likely to be him, if he's honest.

"Ready?" Harry asks, reaching for the tin of Floo powder on the chimneypiece, and Draco nods. 

As much as he ever will be. Draco takes a breath, steels his shoulders.

Together, he and Harry step into the Floo. It doesn't matter how bloody tired they might be, duty still calls. 

In a burst of green sparks, they whirl away.

***

The vault at Gringotts is already filled with Aurors and Unspeakables when Harry walks in, Draco right behind him. They haven't bothered with staggering their arrival; neither one of them gives a fuck if anyone notices. Not right now, not tonight. Harry catches sight of Parkinson in her white clean suit, crouched beside a pile of Galleons, already casting detection charms and ordering the other magiforensicologists about. She looks over at Harry and nods before going back to her work, her dark hair twisted back off her face, hidden away beneath a white cap and the hood of her clean suit.

Harry stops next to Whitaker and Zabini, Draco at his side. "Give me details," Harry says, his voice grim. He already knows the bare bones; Zabini'd been the last one in the office and had taken the initial call before ringing Harry at home. The vault belongs to Rodolphus Lestrange; at ten past five the goblins had reported a breach, and by the time the security protocols had kicked in thirty seconds later, the perpetrators had escaped. 

Zabini glances over at Harry, his face sober. "Not much more than I told you already, guv." He's already pulled on a clean suit of his own; Harry takes the one of the suits Whitaker hands him and Draco. He hates the bloody things, hates the sharp tingle of magic across his skin as he zips it and pulls the hood up over his hair. 

Draco pulls his hair back in one hand, tugging the suit hood forward so the strands are caught by the sealing charm as his fingers slip free. Zabini tosses Draco a pair of white paper booties to put over his shoes, then holds another pair out to Harry. 

"The goblins raised the alarm with us two minutes after it happened," Zabini says. "Althea and I managed to get down here…" He glances over at Whitaker. "By twenty past?"

"Something like that." Whitaker crosses her arms across her chest. "We secured the perimeter and got Parkinson here with a response team as soon as possible. One of the goblins is bringing us a copy of their security readings to see what their charms caught."

Harry nods, his gaze sweeping the wide berth of the vault. The stone floors are covered with coins, piles rising halfway up the high, granite walls of the vault cave. It's cold in here, and Harry wishes he'd thought to cast a warming charm. He looks over at Draco. "All right?" he murmurs, and Draco just shrugs. He looks pale against the stark white of the clean suit, and Harry knows it has to be hard for him to be here, standing in his uncle's vault like this. 

"Malfoy!" Hermione's voice echoes across the vault, and Draco turns towards the door. She's standing there, Jake a step or two behind her, and she gestures towards Draco, only giving Harry a quick frown. Harry fights back a roil of annoyance; he doesn't like Hermione pulling Draco away from him so publicly, making it clear that he's under her command now.

Draco just glances at Harry. "It's fine," he says, and his elbow brushes Harry's arm, the only bit of comfort he can give Harry with this many people around.

"Fucking Unspeakables," Zabini says beneath his breath, rather unnecessarily in Harry's opinion, but Harry's also a bit surprised by the scowl Zabini sends their way. Harry wonders if it's the territoriality over jurisdiction or Jake that's causing Zabini to bristle the way he is. Probably both, really, Harry thinks. This ought to be an Auror case, to be honest. He'd thought that the moment Draco'd been called in as well, but he's not stupid enough to say that to his already high-strung boyfriend.

"Wait here and do what you can to keep Parkinson and her lot from getting pushed aside," Harry says to Zabini and Whitaker, and he follows Draco over to Hermione, his hands shoved in the pockets of his clean suit, the paper boots on his feet a soft rustle against the stone floor. "What's the Department of Mysteries want with a vault break-in, Hermione?" Harry asks, keeping his voice easy and light. "Wouldn't have thought Croaker wanted to sign off on overtime for something like this."

Hermione exchanges a glance with Jake. "It's a bit more complicated," she says. "We almost had a team in place before this happened." She sighs. "Forty minutes faster on the paperwork, and we would have."

Harry frowns at her. "Why?"

"We had a tip off that something might happen," Hermione starts to say and then Jake's speaking over her, cutting her off.

"Eddie called this afternoon," Jake says, and Harry realises Jake's shaken, his gaze darting around the vault, searching the shadows. "Said something was going down soon. I just didn't think he meant today…" He trails off, and he takes the clean suit he's handed by one of the magiforensicologists. 

"I was trying to get permission to place Unspeakables in the bank," Hermione says, "but the goblins dragged their feet." She pulls on a clean suit, tightening it around her wrists. "If Eddie'd given us some bloody details, we might have caught them."

"What's Eddie got to do with this?" Harry asks, but Hermione just shakes her head. One of the Unspeakables at the door calls her name, and she places a hand on Jake's arm, squeezing gently before she hurries off.

Draco's studying Jake. "Your brother's with them, isn't he?"

Jake rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "I think the fucking bastard is." Harry swears softly; Jake gives him a wry smile as he zips his clean suit over his dark grey jacket. "Had the same reaction," Jake says. He sighs. "I don't think he wants to be. The goddamn idiot's trying to play hero." His mouth twists to one side. "Make things right, he said, and, Jesus, Harry, you know Eddie. He's going to get his fool self killed, and--" Jake's voice cracks. He looks away from them. 

It's Draco who rests a hand on Jake's shoulder. "He'll be all right."

"These aren't men," Jake says, his voice quiet, "who take kindly to being swindled, Malfoy. You know that as well as I do. And my jackass brother doesn't know how to do anything but swindle." He looks over at Draco. "He might be a criminal, but Eddie has his own fucking moral compass. He's never killed anyone, and nine times out of ten, if he's stealing from someone, they're an asshole." He folds his arms across his chest. "Bastard thinks he's goddamn Robin Hood or something, except the poor he's usually giving to is Edward Fontenot Durant. I don't know what the fuck he thinks he's doing with these fuckers." His face creases. "God _damn_ it, Eddie."

Hermione's walking back over to them, a goblin by her side, and Harry looks at her, asks, "Do we have magical signatures yet?"

"Nothing that'll hold up in a Wizengamot hearing," Hermione says. She has a sheaf of papers in her hands; she flips through them. "Griphook here just gave me what their system's recorded." She frowns down at one of the parchments. "Three humans--two men, one woman--"

"And a Dementor," Griphook says. He looks up at Harry. "Hello again, Mr Potter."

Harry gives the silver-haired goblin a small smile. "Sorry we have to meet up like this."

Griphook's mouth quirks to one side. It's not exactly pleasant. "Last time I saw you we were in the vault next door. Madame Lestrange's, as I recall." He looks Harry up and down. "You're the last wizard to have broken into Gringott's before now. Well. You and Unspeakable Granger."

"With your help," Harry says, and he catches the sharp look Draco gives him. That's a story Harry'll have to share later, he's certain. "Although as I recall you also tried to betray us in the end."

"Yes." Griphook gives a little shrug of his narrow shoulders. "Well, one does have a loyalty to one's employer, doesn't one?" His eyes are bright and sharp. "But all's well that ends well, I would say. You did escape with your cup."

Harry doesn't quite know what to say. Yes, they'd made it out of Gringotts with the Horcrux hidden inside of Helga Hufflepuff's goblet, but they'd nearly died in the process, clinging to a Ukranian Ironbelly's back. Harry wonders how Aggie's doing now, off with Charlie in his dragon preserve. 

Jake clears his throat. "Do we definitely know that one of the men was Eddie?"

"No," Hermione says, her voice gentle, "but we do know that they used a Hand of Glory to get in."

"A strong one," Griphook says, and he looks unhappy. "Stronger than usual, and worked with darker magic; our wards would have held back a more readily available Hand. We've tested such things."

Harry and Draco exchange a glance. "We lost the Hand of Glory in New York," Draco says quietly, and Harry looks over at Jake. 

"Could Eddie have amplified it?" Harry asks. "Fixed what Dolohov bollocksed up?"

Jake's face is grim. "Probably, but he wouldn't have done it for them without being forced. Not after Billy was killed." 

The guard at the Greenpoint holding centre, Harry remembers. Eddie's friend. "Do you know that Eddie was with them out of his own free will?"

"I don't know." Jake worries his lip between his teeth. "He said he'd got caught, but he's also enough of a fucking asshole to think he could bring them down from the inside."

"All they took," Hermione says, "is a grimoire. Fifteenth century Italian." She looks up from the sheaf of papers, frowning. "No money, which is odd. If Lestrange is on the run, he'll need dosh--"

"Unless he's pulling it from other accounts," Draco says, and he sounds weary. He touches Harry's arm. "That Muggle account of my father's--"

Harry swears. "Zabini!" He waits for Zabini to trot over, barely noticing how Zabini glances at Jake, then back away again. "Those financials of Lucius Malfoy. Where are you with them?"

Zabini shrugs, his hands in the pockets of his clean suit. "Was waiting for the past year's transfer documentation when all this went down. Why?" He looks between Draco and Harry. "How does that tie into this?"

"You're trying to get into the Muggle account through Gringotts transfers?" Draco asks, not bothering to answer, and Zabini nods.

"Figured it'd be easier than Imperiusing the Muggle bank manager, all things considered." Zabini rocks forward on the balls of his feet. He's still ignoring Jake, Harry realises, and he wonders what the fuck that's about until he decides he doesn't really care. "Gringotts hasn't sent the files over yet, though."

Harry snaps his fingers at Griphook. "Can you push that request through for us?"

Griphook scowls. "There's paperwork and protocol--"

"And your bank was just broken into," Harry says, as mildly as he can. 

"One might debate that," Griphook says, his frown deepening, and Harry knows he's about to be served goblin rubbish on a fucking silver platter. They never want to admit to any issues with their security; the Head Goblin's always afraid it'll cause a run on the bank itself. Frankly, Harry thinks that's bollocks. Security breaches hardly ever happen in Gringotts. It's nearly bloody impossible to break in. Harry of all people ought to know. "Should the vault have been accessed by Master Lestrange himself, albeit in an unconventional manner--"

Harry draws himself up, trying to look as intimidating as he can in a puffy white paper suit. "Documentation, Griphook. Constable Zabini's going with you, and you're going to bloody well make certain he has everything we need, understood?"

Griphook's ears twitch. "Most extraordinary," he protests, but at Harry's glare, his shoulders slump. "Fine," he says, "but it'll be your careers the Head Goblin comes after. Not mine."

What a fucking jobsworth, Harry thinks. "I'll go on record as being the one responsible for forcing you to help the Auror force, don't worry."

That only makes Griphook harrumph. Still, he quirks a long, crooked finger towards Zabini. "Follow me," he says, "but you don't touch a thing."

"I'm not a bloody fool," Zabini snaps back, and he rolls his eyes as he trails Griphook out of the vault. Harry's not entirely certain whom he feels sorrier for, Griphook or Zabini, if he's honest. He shakes his head, then looks back at Hermione. 

"What's this grimoire they took?" Harry asks.

"Just listed as a grimoire." She hands over a paper, her finger trailing down the long column of spidery handwriting. "Here. We'll need to track down what exactly it might have been, although if it was handwritten, that might be difficult. Still, it's the only thing the wards caught going out of the vault other than the three people."

"And Dementor," Jake adds.

They all look at each other. 

"Because that's not bloody weird," Harry murmurs. 

Draco rubs his hand over his paper-clad elbow. "Uncle Roddy took a few Dementors with him when he broke out of Azkaban. It's not entirely mad that one might have tagged along here. He could have used it like a weapon. Kissing any sentient creature in its way."

Harry can't suppress the shudder that goes through him. "Nasty."

"My uncle isn't the nicest man," Draco points out. "As I believe we've established already."

"Guv!" Harry looks back at the shout; Parkinson's standing up now, behind stack of what looks like antique furniture. She gives him a somber look. "I think you'll want to see this."

Harry strides over, Jake and Draco and Hermione coming after him. Whitaker walks over as well, and they gather behind Parkinson. She kneels down next to a Jacobean armchair and sweeps away a scattering of coins from the floor. Harry sees what's caught her eye immediately. 

It's carved into the floor, glittering silver-white against the black granite. Harry crouches beside Parkinson. 

"Fresh?" he asks. 

"Within the hour." Her face is pale; her eyes flick back to Jake standing behind her, his gaze caught by the shimmering mark. "Preliminary magical signature matches Eddie Durant's."

Harry can hear Jake's sharp intake of breath behind them. He doesn't look back. His stomach's twisting; he can't take his eyes off the lines etched into the stone. Harry reaches out a gloved finger and traces along them. A small circle inside of a triangle bisected by a line. Around the edges is another circle, a bit flatter and wider, scalloped along the edges, the center of it filled with small sweeping, scrolling curlicues that almost look like a floral pattern, or, perhaps, stylised fleur-de-lis. 

"The Deathly Hallows," Harry says, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet of the vault. He looks up at Jake then. "Why'd your brother carve their rune--"

But Jake's shaking his head. "No," he says. "That's part of the Robichau family crest." He squats down beside Harry. "Left gore of the field, set slightly off centre so it bleeds off the shield itself." He looks over at Harry. "My mama was born Élodie Robichau Fontenot. Saw that all the time on Mamère's best china back in Thibodaux, the plates that were passed down every generation, the ones that came over from France three hundred years ago. Maybe more."

Harry looks back at the carved lines. "Jake." He doesn't quite know what to say, so he glances back at the man he'd spent two years of his life with, the man he's now not entirely certain he ever really knew. "Take all that fiddly rubbish out of the back, and that's the rune for the Deathly Hallows."

"Gellert Grindelwald carved it all over Durmstrang a century ago," Hermione says from behind both of them. Her voice is hushed. "It's been found in necromantic grimoires since Paracelsus' day."

But Jake's shaking his head. "My mama didn't come from necromancers," he says sharply. "Mamère was furious with her when she got mixed up with Daddy--" He breaks off, falls silent. "No," he says after a moment, and his accent thickens, slips a bit into a drawl the way it only does when he's thinking about Thibodaux, Harry knows. "I don't know what the fuck is going on, but Eddie left that, and fuck if he knows about these Hallows of yours. He wanted me to see this, wanted me to tie it to Mama's folk."

Harry frowns. "That makes no bloody sense."

Jake's jaw takes that stubborn tilt that Harry knows all too well. "He called me, Harry. He knew I'd find this."

Parkinson looks between Harry and Jake. "That's all well and good," she says, "but I think the questions we should be asking ourselves are, one." She holds up a finger. "Why the hell did Eddie Durant put this here, wasting valuable getaway time and risking getting caught, either by the goblins or his conspirators?" Another finger goes up. "And two, how the fuck did that symbol show up in his--" Her fingers point towards Jake. "Family crest? Because you can't tell me that's some sort of weird coincidence." She shifts on her haunches, steadies herself against a chair back hanging over the edge of a table, looks around at all of them. 

"Don't forget three," Hermione says softly. She glances over at Draco. "What the bloody hell would Rodolphus Lestrange need with a Renaissance grimoire?"

"Bloody hell if I know," Draco says. He's still looking at the Hallows rune, his forehead furrowed, his arms crossed over his chest, the clean suit wrinkled beneath them. Harry wants to reach out and take Draco's hand, hold it tight. He doesn't. He can't.

The rest of them are silent, the enormity of this all settling over them. Whatever this is, Harry thinks, it's far more complicated than it first seemed. 

"Jesus," Whitaker says finally, and they all turn her way. She looks at them evenly. "In my professional opinion," she says, her voice calm and steady, "I'd say things just got really goddamned bloody strange."

Fuck if any of them can disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> And as I mentioned above, I'm keeping to a two-week posting schedule for a bit until my brain's feeling more like itself and my RL settles some, so the next chapter should be up on Sunday, November 5!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blaise nurses a drink and tries not to be bitter, Draco thinks he sees someone familiar, and the house just wants everyone to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a new installment, beautiful, lovely readers. Life is still mad (I'm in the middle of a 26-day stretch where I have one day--today--off work, ugh) and I'm going to take an extra week off to get some time to a) finish a fest fic and b) recover before Chanukah and the other winter holidays party seasons start. I'll post the next installment on Sunday, November 26th.
> 
> Lots of love to you readers and special good luck to those of you who are writing for holiday fests! I'm continuously grateful to you for reading! Piles of love to Cissa and Noe for their ongoing proofing help and support. Oh, and this one might have some sex in it. Fair warning. LOLZ.
> 
> PS If you have a moment, [go over to tumblr and wish chibaken a brilliant belated happy birthday](https://o0o-chibaken-o0o.tumblr.com/). Because I missed it. *SOBS* (This one's for you, Chibi. <3 <3 <3 <3)

By half-ten on Saturday night, Blaise is sat alone at a table at his Soho club, sipping at the end of his second whisky and refusing to get mad. He's more weary than anything else, if he's honest; it's been a bloody long day, and he'd spent too much of it in the office. Besides, Blaise hadn't really expected Jake to show, not with the excitement over the Gringotts break-in, not to mention his brother's involvement. From what Blaise could tell from a distance last night, watching him from across Rodolphus Lestrange's Gringotts vault, Jake'd been pretty fucking shaken by Eddie showing up in a high-level crime on British soil. So, yeah, maybe it's no surprise he hasn't shown his face. Blaise isn't sure he would either, if the situations were reversed.

Still, Blaise knows he's fooling himself, telling himself being stood up like this doesn't matter. It's not something that happens often, but when it has before, Blaise has always been able to laugh it off. But this time it's different. He can feel a strange, uneasy energy roiling just below his skin, a quiet rage beginning to seep like magma through his veins. He'd wanted this night to go differently, wanted Jake to admit just how much he wanted Blaise, to be on his knees begging Blaise for just one fuck. Then again, Blaise's also been fantasising about getting Jake hard, then refusing the goddamn bastard and going the fuck home alone just to prove a goddamn point, which is probably not the healthiest way of handling whatever the hell this is between the two of them, Blaise supposes, but right now it's the only fucking thing keeping him sitting at this bloody bar, watching the bright young things around him flirt and laugh their way through this thrice-damned evening. 

Blaise turns his glass in the light, watches the whisky sparkle against the cut sides. He's tired; the guv had him sorting through a decade of Gringotts data on Lucius Malfoy's financial transfers. He's going to see goblin ledgers in his fucking sleep tonight. At least he'd been able to stay in the incident room. The guv and Althea had been back and forth between the Ministry and Gringotts all day; Althea'd had to reschedule a lunch with her dad. Blaise had heard her on her mobile, quietly trying to tell him everything'd be fine, that she'd see him later in the week, she promised, but Mitchell Whitaker was having nothing of it. Blaise hadn't been trying to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help himself. Mitchell's voice had been bloody loud, and Althea's face had been grim and set when she'd finally hung up. 

"Bad week for all this," she'd said, and Blaise knew she'd been talking in a way about her mother's death. Clio Whitaker'd been killed on the second of August. Blaise had looked it up afterwards. Today's the fifth, which means Wednesday had been the anniversary. Althea hadn't said anything about it, but she'd been quiet and reserved, and Blaise thinks maybe they should have all known, should have done something to distract her. Potter's useless lately; he's far too caught up in worrying about Draco, which still stings sometimes. If it weren't for him, Blaise would have been the one with Draco these past few weeks, looking after him, making sure he kept his head above water, didn't give into those fits of depression he's prone to, or the panic attacks and swells of anxiety. Blaise thinks he should be glad the guv's there, that Draco has someone to lean on, that he and Pansy and Mills and Greg and Theo aren't all on call for those late nights when Draco can't sleep, when he needs someone to talk to, or to smoothe back his hair and tell him everything's going to be all right. Blaise has done that before, and he knows how hard it can be, how difficult Draco is. But at least then he'd felt needed. Wanted. Useful. Now Blaise isn't certain where he fits in Draco's life, not anymore. It's different now with Potter taking Blaise's place, and Blaise knows he shouldn't be jealous, knows the guv is good for Draco, knows that Draco's needed someone to love him the way Harry Potter loves him. 

That doesn't mean Blaise doesn't miss his best friend. Far too much, he thinks.

With a sigh, Blaise swirls the glass again, watching the whisky slosh up the side. He feels guilty for not being there for Draco. Even more so for not realising Althea was shutting herself off, walling away her own grief. He doesn't know what to do there. Althea's sharper and pricklier than Draco in her own way. Far more private and reserved. He'd tried to ask if she was all right; she'd just shrugged and nodded, then told him she needed to get back to work. He takes a sip of whisky

Blaise is Slytherin enough to both recognise a bald-faced lie when it's told to him and to respect the need for it. He'd given her space today, as much as she'd needed, and he'd kept his mouth shut when Potter'd asked him if Althea seemed a bit distracted in the afternoon. No sense in sending a bloody Gryffindor after her. Potter'd only stomp around in those scuffed boots of his, crushing Althea's fragile feelings beneath them as he blundered about, trying to make things better. Instead, Blaise wants to pull Pansy aside when he can, ask her to look after Althea. He thinks it might be better coming from her; Blaise has seen the way Althea still looks at Pans when she thinks no one's watching. 

He sets his glass down, drags his tongue along his lower lip, catching the sharp bite of the whisky still lingering on his skin. He wonders if anyone sees him when Jake's in the room, if they notice how his gaze is drawn to that lanky frame, those tousled blond curls and wide shoulders, the perfect curve of that arse. Blaise closes his eyes, breathes out. He can almost feel the softness of Jake's skin beneath his palms, the press of Jake's body against his, hard and solid and bloody intoxicating in the way it feels, the urges it pulls out of Blaise. His skin prickles; he shifts uncomfortably on the banquette. Blaise feels hot, uneasy, as if there's something missing deep inside of him. He hates this, hates the way his stomach roils and his back tenses, the way he has to grind his teeth to keep from shouting out his anger at Jake's betrayal. 

Blaise breathes out, open his eyes. It surprises him that no one's looking his way. These feelings seem so overwhelming, so intense that it's almost laughable to him that no one notices them. Then again, everyone in this bloody bar is more concerned about themselves and what they want, aren't they? They could give a fuck about Blaise, about the anguish that's shifting through him again, the humiliation, the anger. He closes his fingers around the glass of whisky and tries to draw in a slow breath. It feels almost impossible. He wants to scream, wants to throw this table over, to lash out at anyone who crosses his path. 

He doesn't. It's time for him to leave, Blaise thinks. To give up on this ridiculous farce. He wants his bed and a good wank before he falls asleep. Potter's already told him to be back in by noon on Sunday. Thanks to Rodolphus Lestrange, there'll be no bloody weekend for Blaise. Fucking tosser. Blaise lifts his glass again. Fuck him, and fuck Jake Durant, too, whilst he's at it.

Which is why he's a bit taken aback when he glances over the door and sees Jake's broad shoulders and inimitable lanky, American slouch at the membership desk. Blaise had left Jake's name earlier when he'd first come in, and he watches as Jake gets motioned through and then glances away quickly so Jake won't realise he's seen him come in. There are many things Blaise is eager to appear, but desperate is not one of them.

Blaise counts to ten, trying to calm his temper, lets Jake approach the table cautiously, then finally looks up when Jake's only a pace or two away from his table. Blaise tries to look impassive. He thinks he does a decent job when he sees Jake shift nervously in front of him, one foot to the other.

"This seat taken?" Jake gestures to the empty side of the banquette across from Blaise.

Blaise shrugs, his mouth pulling down at the corners. He's quiet for a moment too long before saying, "Please. Do sit down."

Jake sits, puts an arm on the back of the banquette, his long, wide fingers not too far from Blaise's shoulder, and really, Blaise wants Jake's hands on him yesterday. He hates himself a little for that, even as Jake clears his throat and says, a bit contritely, "Sorry I'm late."

 _Fuck you_ , Blaise wants to say. The sleeve of Jake's white shirt is creased from being rolled up, then smoothed back down, obviously over the course of the day, and there's a fleck of tomato sauce on the edge of Jake's green tie that he'd missed whilst in the loo trying to get his hair under control. Blaise is more cross than before. Jake hasn't even made a bloody effort to dress nicely, and really, given that, Blaise knows exactly where he stands in the scheme of things. He reminds himself that Jake's looking for a fuck, nothing else, and Blaise shouldn't delude himself that anything else is on offer.

"Would you like a drink?" Blaise asks, swallowing the rest of his whisky in front of Jake. Two can play the game of casual offence, after all.

Jake's eyes watch Blaise's mouth for a moment, bright and heated. "Not really." His voice is soft, a bit rumbly, and Blaise feels his traitorous body respond almost instantaneously. He takes a moment, tries to settle his racing pulse. Jake's nearness is overpowering, the intensity of his gaze has Blaise struggling to breathe normally. Whatever this is between them, this hot, angry need, it's not dying down, but flaring up stronger than before, burning through Blaise, pushing him towards doing something stupid and rash. Blaise is better than this; he knows it. He's never allowed himself to be this out of control with anyone he's ever taken to his bed. Even if this is only sex, it's still dragging them both into its flame, destroying them both. Blaise makes his decision.

Merlin help him, but he's a goddamned fool.

"Would you like to come back to mine?" Blaise glances slightly to the right, making sure the no one's coming their direction. The buzz of the bar is subtle but thank Circe it masks sound. Blaise doesn't want to be thought a complete slag. Not here, at least. 

The smile that splits Jake's face is filthy and full of intent, and Blaise half-hates him for that. "Yeah," Jake says in that slow soft drawl of his. "I'd like to, if you'll have me."

Merlin, would Blaise. For a moment, he wonders what he's invited into his home, but he pushes the thought away. It's not as though Jake's a vampire, after all. And they've already fucked, for Circe's sake--in New York Jake had Blaise on his back and on his knees and hanging from the bloody headboard, begging for Jake to fuck him harder. It's not like they haven't done this before, so why is Blaise struggling to stay calm in the face of it, a wild, keening cry threatening to well out of him? He wants this, wants Jake, perhaps a little too much. It frightens him, worries him. Blaise knows he ought to walk away, to go home alone, to tell Jake Durant exactly where he can put that gorgeous prick of his. And that's the rub, isn't it? Blaise wants it inside of him; the very thought of that, of seeing Jake move above him, lost in the planes and angles of Blaise's body, sends a rush of need and want prickling through him. He wants to claim, to be claimed, to mark Jake as his and his alone, in a way he's never wanted to with another lover. 

Still, he reminds himself again, for Jake, this is only a fuck.

Blaise stands, sliding from between the table and the banquette, smoothing down the front of his jacket. He'd made the attempt at least, in one of his better suits with a sharply pressed white shirt and deep plum tie that he knows matches the velvet banquette. "Well," he says, barely looking at Jake, "the Floo's this way." 

He doesn't wait for Jake to follow. He knows somehow that Jake will have no trouble catching him up, and true to form Blaise has barely reached the narrow corridor where the Floos are hidden away before Jake's at his heels, a little too close, a little too obviously watching Blaise's arse. Blaise would be offended, but he's not, not at all. He wishes he were, but he's too bloody eager. Blaise wants this, wants Jake snapping after him, following him home, fucking him across his giant, grey, Belgian linen-covered bed. Blaise wants this, and he wants it more than he wants the empty, bloodless thrill of turning Jake down.

Blaise throws the silver Floo powder in the fire, sending green flames shooting high against the blackened brick, and gives his address loudly enough that even an idiot like Jake Durant could catch it. He steps in and whirls away, his stomach hooking with lust and slight disorientation. 

"Lumos," Blaise says, stepping out of the hearth, adjusting the level of his lights to low and forgiving. He can't do this in bright light--he's still a bit ashamed of himself for giving in so readily to Jake. He'd spent a family holiday with this man at the Belmont, not two months past, but he still doesn't know if he's ready to have Jake in his private space. Blaise doesn't do this often, doesn't invite men back to his flat like this. He'd rather go to theirs or find a hotel. He supposes he could have insisted Jake take him back to his, to whatever dull hotel room MACUSA's paying for near Westminster. They could have shagged across an anonymous bed, then Blaise could have left, come back to his own place, his own refuge, his own bed. One that wouldn't remind him of Jake Durant every time he slipped between the sheets. But it's too late now, he supposes, cursing himself for his stupidity. 

The Floo sparks to life behind him, flickering green flames lighting the pale grey walls. Blaise turns, watches Jake step out of his Floo. It feels strange and yet oddly familiar, Jake shaking the dust of the Floo off his boots, one hand on the white chimneypiece, and Blaise doesn't know how it could seem so right when it's never happened before.

Jake looks around at the bookcases, the family portraits, the heirloom clock, the pastel sketch on the far wall of Blaise as a child that captures an impishness he's forgotten. "Wow, this is nice." Jake's voice is quiet, catching roughly on the words, and something warm and liquid swirls through the pit of Blaise's stomach.

"Would you like a drink? I do have decent whisky." Blaise is hoping for some sort of distraction, a moment to think or just recover his composure. He feels like he's run a marathon and they've not done a thing yet. He slides out of his jacket, drapes it over the back of the white leather sofa. 

"Thanks, but I'm good." Jake shakes his head, his blond curls shifting. Up close, Blaise can see a bit of stubble at Jake's jaw, a bristly warm tawny gold, and Blaise knows he's going to feel the scrape of it against his skin in a few moments and the thought makes him shiver. 

Despite the need building in his blood, Blaise waits, lets Jake look at him good and hard, his heated blue gaze shifting from Blaise's chest to his crotch to his thighs. Blaise' prick is swelling against his flies, and his knees are halfway to melting at the thought of what he's about to let Jake do, how much he wants Jake to fuck him into the mattress, but he's not going to make the first move. He's going to make Jake cross the distance and come to him. There may not be much of his pride left, but Blaise is going to bloody well cling to the shreds. He won't be the first to ask to be fucked. He won't beg.

"You'd do a gorgeous job," Jake says, taking a step closer. Blaise's breath catches. "Especially on your knees. But I'm really not here to make you beg. Unless that's what turns you on."

And Blaise realises he must have transmitted that last thought a bit too strongly. His face heats--how much of what he's thinking can Jake hear? He doesn't look away. _Well?_

"Enough," Jake says in answer, eyes scanning Blaise's face curiously. "Not everything, but enough filters through, the closer I am to you. It's like picking up a radio frequency, I guess." He takes another step towards Blaise. "The nearer I am to you, the louder it gets sometimes." He reaches out; his fingers brush along Blaise's jaw. "When I'm inside of you, it's like…" Jake licks his lip, breathes out. He drops his hand. "Fucking overwhelming almost. I really can't explain why. It's not quite Legilimency, at least not the way I know it."

"Oh," Blaise says, his voice thin and odd to his ears. He can still feel the soft pressure of Jake's fingertips against his skin. He thinks of Jake's hands sliding down his sides; Jake's gaze follows, and Blaise can't hide his shiver. He feels exposed, too much so, and he lifts his chin, almost defiantly. "You want to fuck me, then?" He gestures over his shoulder, towards the still dark hallway. "My bedroom's back there."

Jake moves closer, the warmth of his body radiating across the space between them. It's been a reasonably warm August, not horrid yet, but Blaise's flat is cool and shaded by lime trees. "I do." Jake runs his thumb along Blaise's jaw, cupping it slightly as Blaise closes his eyes, his body sparking at the touch. "I really fucking do." His voice is almost a whisper as he leans in, hand pulling Blaise closer, and he brushes his lips across Blaise's.

The first touch of their lips is bloody electric, like a thunderclap or the echo of a spellblast that leaves Blaise shaken and vibrating with want. Jake's skin smells of lemongrass and something musky and masculine, and Blaise wants to swallow him whole, wants Jake to take him right here in his own front room, bend him over the sofa, thrust into him with just the barest amount of prep. It's all Blaise can do to keep from climbing Jake right now and wrapping himself bodily around him.

Blaise pulls back from the kiss, puts a little bit of space between them. "I--" He breaks off, looks away, his lips pressing together, caught by his teeth, his tongue darting along the crease of his mouth. Blaise needs to take this in stages, needs to keep everything under control before he does something ridiculously stupid. He breathes out, smoothes his hands along the sides of his trousers. The sensations rolling through him are almost overpowering. Whilst Blaise is distracted by trying--and failing--to push down his own surging desire, Jake grabs him and hoists him easily over his shoulder. Blaise dangles in the new position as Jake carries him out of the room, his body slung over Jake's, and wonders what the fuck just happened.

"You arsehole," Blaise finally gets out halfway down the hallway, his leg held steady by Jake's arm, but he doesn't mean it. Not entirely. 

The vibrations of Jake's laugh travel from his chest into Blaise's leg and cheek. "Sorry. I got impatient," Jake says, and then they're in the cool, spare space of Blaise's bedroom and Jake lays Blaise down on the bed, still fully clothed, then casts a Lumos, the lamp on the nightstand flaring to life, casting shadows on the creamy walls. "All right?" Jake asks, and Blaise just nods. To be honest, all he can think right now is, _how the goddamned hell am I supposed to maintain a sense of decorum through this?_

Jake steps back takes off his shirt, letting Blaise watch him pop the buttons to reveal a swathe of tanned, beige-pale skin, pink-brown nipples, and a dark gold trail of hairs across his flat, muscular belly, leading down to his navel. Blaise's relieved to see the substantial bulge in Jake's khaki trousers, to know that Jake wants him at least as much as Blaise wants Jake. 

This knowledge gives Blaise the courage to lean back against the pillows, to smile slightly, to say with only the faintest catch in his voice, "By all means, carry on."

To Blaise's surprise, Jake does. He bends to unlace his cap-toe oxfords, then toes them off, removing his socks afterward. With Blaise watching him hungrily, Jake strips off his trousers, laying them over the bedroom chair. He stands there in light blue boxers, his prick straining at the slit. Blaise gives himself time to feast with eyes, noting a scar on Jake's knee that looks like surgery of some sort, or a bad curse blast, following the turn of his ankles, the powerful flare of his thigh muscles, the cut vee of muscle visible above the low-slung elastic of his boxers. His body is familiar, and yet, it's terribly strange to have him here, in Blaise's own bedroom, not just the stuff of fantasy and fond memory any longer.

Jake steps forward, his eyes fixed on Blaise. "May I?" He gestures to Blaise's shoes and when Blaise nods, Jake unlaces them, gently slipping them off of Blaise's feet and lining them up to the side of the bed. He runs a thumbnail along the arch of Blaise's right foot and makes him gasp, does the same with the left before rubbing each softly in turn, then removing Blaise's socks.

With a bit of prompting, Blaise undoes the buttons of his trouser flies, and Jake reaches beneath Blaise's arse, his nose grazing the swell of Blaise's prick briefly, before pulling Blaise's trousers and his pants off in one go. Blaise's cock springs free, bobbing wetly in the space between them, and Jake's smile is sharp and white, almost feral. "I like you like this."

"I look a right tit," Blaise protests, suddenly uncomfortable in his shirt and tie still, his nether parts bare and his body trembling with want.

Jake folds Blaise's trousers, putting them on the chair, then leans in to slip the knot of Blaise's plum silk tie, his lips brushing close to Blaise's ear. "Hardly."

The word rasps across Blaise's consciousness, makes him shiver with possibility. Jake pulls at the silk length of Blaise's tie, tugging it free, then he unbuttons Blaise's shirt, slides it from his shoulders before draping them both carefully across the chair. The assessing, possessive look he gives Blaise makes Blaise feel more off-kilter, more loose and liquid than the two glasses of whisky he'd finished while waiting for Jake to show up. 

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Jake murmurs, his face soft as he takes in the length of Blaise's naked body, spread out over his grey linen coverlet. 

Blaise doesn't want the compliment to affect him. It does, a lot if he's honest. His firm resolve is weakening under the intensity of Jake's focus, his obvious desire for Blaise. If Blaise had been uncertain before, he's sure now that Jake Durant wants him. The bloody hell of it is that Blaise knows full well he's perilously close to trusting Jake again, in this moment at least, and this infuriates him. He can't afford trust, not when this is just a fuck, although he really wonders if that's what it is, if anyone who looks at him the way Jake is at this moment could want nothing more than a quick tumble and tug. That hope, that weakness unsettles him, makes him want to strike out, to hurt Jake before Jake hurts him. Again. 

"Are you looking or buying?" Blaise asks crassly, and he spreads his legs wide, gives Jake a good look at the swell of his prick, the tightness of his bollocks. 

Jake's eyes regard Blaise with lazy amusement, refusing to be baited by the bite of Blaise's words. "Getting impatient, darlin'?"

Blaise shivers at the unexpected term of endearment. "And if I am?" he counters. He shifts, leans up on his elbows. "What exactly would you do?"

Jake's still laughing as he stretches his body over Blaise's, his nose pressing close to Blaise's jaw, his palms holding his weight just above Blaise, his knees bracketing Blaise's thighs. "Relax," he says in a low, warm voice that raises goose bumps on Blaise's arms. Jake nuzzles Blaise's neck, his lips dragging along Blaise's jaw. Blaise draws in a ragged breath, stretches out his throat so Jake can move closer. Jake shifts his weight; his fingers rub circles across Blaise's shoulder. 

"Gorgeous bastard," Jake murmurs. Blaise's hips buck up, but his prick only meets air. Jake's teeth bite into the skin of Blaise's neck, teasing, nipping, and Blaise arches again to give him more surface to work with. He might have to heal the bruises before meeting his mother for brunch in the morning and definitely before he goes back to the Ministry, but it's worth it for the delicious scrape of teeth against skin, followed by the softness of Jake's lips soothing the spot he's just worried.

Blaise groans as Jake keeps mouthing his neck, down to his collarbone, keeping Blaise lightly pinned but not giving him nearly enough friction to even take a bit of the edge off. Jake's still wearing those stupid boxer shorts; Blaise wants to feel Jake naked and pressed against his body. Jake sucks across his chest, making him moan as he licks his sternum, then downwards.

"Fuck. Jake." Blaise isn't even able to be coherent. It's like all of his brain is in his body, his cock, his writhing in response to Jake's mouth. "More."

Jake slides down in answer, sucking a bruised, dark oval into the delicate skin over Blaise's hip. He manages to perfectly avoid Blaise's aching prick, and really, it's unfair, like an epic cocktease. And Blaise might just have said that out loud or loud enough in his head because Jake is laughing again, his warm, wide hands pressing Blaise's legs even further apart.

"You're so goddamn impatient." Jake sucks along the inner surface of Blaise's thigh, and Blaise spreads his legs as wide as he can, wrapping his fingers through the slats in his modern, white wood headboard to keep from pleading. "Good things come to those who wait."

"As long as I come, you arsehole." Blaise's voice is hoarse and oh so needy, and he doesn't bloody care. Jake has him nearing the edge already, and he's not even touched Blaise's prick. Fucking Jake Durant and his brilliant mouth--Blaise's missed it so much.

"If you stick your gorgeous ass in the air, I'll eat you out." Jake pulls back, grins down at Blaise, and Blaise wants to smack his smug, infuriating face. Or shoot spunk all over it. He takes about a second to flip himself over, shifting his hips against the mattress, his slick cock dragging against the linen coverlet. It'll stain, he thinks, but Blaise doesn't give a damn. There are cleaning charms for that. Jake was the first person Blaise has ever really tried rimming with, and the only one to make him think the embarrassment of the act might be worth it. After his memorable initiation, sprawled across his bed in the Millenium Hilton, arse pushing desperately against Jake's tongue, he'd only regretted waiting until their last night in New York to give in. Now that he has a second shot, he's bloody fucking taking it. Blaise Zabini is many things, but a damned fool isn't one of them.

"Okay if I say the spells?" Jake murmurs, his teeth grazing the back of Blaise's thigh. When Blaise nods yes, he feels the familiar, cool sensation brushing across his arse and balls, followed by a hollowness and a strange, empty ache. Then it feels a bit… slick. 

"What was that last one?" Blaise shifts, and his insides feel a bit odd.

"Just a deep lube spell." Jake moves behind Blaise, the mattress dipping as he does. "You'll thank me later." Jake licks the crease where Blaise's arse meets his thigh.

And really, Jake Durant is a cocky motherfucker, isn't he. Blaise wishes he had the stones to throw Jake out of bed. _But not before he nails me to the sodding mattress,_ Blaise thinks grimly. Still, he knows a rough fuck's not going to make any of this better, that he's just going to want more. He can never get enough of Jake Durant, and he hates himself for it.

The long, rough slide of Jake's tongue across his arsehole robs Blaise of all ability to think. He pushes his arse back as Jake pulls his cheeks apart, burying his face between them. And his mouth! Blaise is gasping, his bollocks heavy, his body on fire as Jakes sucks and licks and spits, thrusting his tongue deep inside him. Jake eats Blaise out like it's the only place he wants to be in the world, and if Blaise is gasping, if he might have his fingernails digging into the wood of his headboard, if his prick is wet and slick against the coverlet and it's all he can do not to jerk himself off and end this agony, well. It's worth all of the shame he'll feel later for spreading his legs for Jake and moaning like a wanton hussy.

"Really?" Jake says, against Blaise's fluttering arsehole. "A hussy? What are you, eighty?"

'I will fucking murder you," Blaise manages to get out, "if you stop, you bastard." And Jake just laughs and presses his tongue back against the aching pucker of Blaise's hole, his hands tight against the curve of Blaise's arsecheeks.

Right when Blaise thinks he might start heading up for the peak to orgasm, Jake pulls back, wiping a hand across his face. "Did you really think I was going to let you come before I fucked you?"

All of Blaise's nerves are tingling and his shoulders are tight and itchy, as if the sharp press of feathers and bone might break through the skin and sinew. He wants to cry out, to shriek in protest. His arse is throbbing and dripping with spit and now lube. Jake leans over to grab something from the night table, and yeah, he's brought his own lube, thank Merlin. He's also finally managed to lose his boxer shorts. Blaise is far too randy to care about Jake's impertinence, or the assumption that Blaise would let him get a leg over.

"I don't care what you do right now," Blaise says, and his voice is hoarse and raw.

Jake smacks Blaise's arse, lightly but enough to sting. "So I should leave?" he asks, a teasing note in his voice.

"No." Blaise possibly growls the syllable like a threat. He's not proud, but he might actually kill Jake with his bare hands if he leaves him like this.

"Oh good." Jake strokes a large hand, filled of lube, across himself, palming his cock from base to swollen, purpled pink tip. "I wasn't sure I was welcome."

"You tosser," Blaise grits out. "You'd really better fuck me soon or else I'm going to throw you out on your ear." He'll die of lust, if Jake doesn't do something soon. He doesn't know if he's furiously angry or about to have the best orgasm of his life. Perhaps both.

Jake slides a warm hand over the base of Blaise's spine, urging him up. Jake helps him onto his knees, Blaise's arse still pushed out, his long-fingered hands wrapping around the top of the headboard now. Jake is on his knees behind him, lining up.

"Here, come back a little," Jake says.

Blaise feels the head of Jake's prick nudging between his arsecheeks, the tip sliding through his crease, and oh, doesn't that feel brilliant, Blaise thinks, not giving a fuck if Jake hears him. Jake holds his cock steady, and Blaise shifts a little, circling his hips to find the right angle, going by sensation, as Jake wraps a hand around his hip, and then Blaise feels his body split open, the heady, quick rush of endorphins as Jake's cock enters his body, slow and careful and Merlin, it hurts and burns, and Blaise has forgotten how big Jake is, how impossible it feels at the beginning. He's so glad that Jake licked him open, that he said the prep spells and got him ready, but there are more than a few moments of discomfort where his arse feels like it's on fire, where Blaise can only breathe raggedly, holding still as the pain settles around him. Jake is still behind him, unmoving, and Blaise can tell he's waiting, trying to read Blaise's signals.

Finally, the stretch eases a little, and Jake groans as he slides deeper into Blaise. Blaise pushes back, then breathes. His body is willing, more than really, but the mechanics are a bit of a challenge. Blaise circles his hips experimentally, and is rewarded with another thick inch or so of prick sliding home. It takes his breath away and simultaneously, it's the only thing he wants. He needs this, needs Jake Durant inside of him, his heart pounding against his chest as Jake shifts ever so carefully deeper into Blaise's body. This feels right. This feels like everything Blaise has ever wanted. Everything he's ever needed. 

"Fuck, you're tight," Jake says, a note of awe in his voice. He's being really good, Blaise knows, pressing in carefully , then not moving while Blaise adjusts. In fact, he's keeping himself still in a way that must involve a lot of exertion.

"You shouldn't have stayed away so long," Blaise says, gritting his teeth.

"Sorry, babe. I really am." Jake nuzzles the back of Blaise's neck, and Blaise pushes himself against Jake's hips, fingers clenched around the headboard still for balance. Jake's hand wraps on top of his, his other on Blaise's hip still, holding him close and keeping him balanced.

"Perhaps you can make up for it by fucking me properly." Blaise's stomach shivers as the tips of Jake's fingers graze it. It feels so odd to be impaled like this, so close and yet, not there yet. 

"Mmmmm." Jake exhales into the short hairs of Blaise's neck. "You know you've still got three inches or so to go, right?"

Blaise levers his hips up a little, letting his body shift forward, and then leans back into it again, his body stretching around Jake. "I'm greedy. I don't make a secret of it."

"You're devastating," Jake says. He leans forward with Blaise, putting both of his hands on the headboard, his tanned fingers twining through Blaise's. "Here, let me try this." His hips pump slightly, and Blaise swears he sees stars. "Is that okay?"

Blaise breathes. "Yeah. Just go slow."

He's surprised how long it takes, Jake patient and unyielding at his back, his own body pressing towards Jake's hips and then forward again when it's too much. His erection wilts a bit, but Jake kisses him, stroking his prick and sending waves of pleasure through him until he thinks perhaps he can do it. The last inch is almost a hopeless disaster, and then it's not at all.

"Oh, shit, that feels amazing," Blaise gasps. Jake is holding him close, warm against his back, his hand ghosting over Blaise's prick still. This is easy between them, this melding together of their bodies, and Blaise has never had it be like this, a slow, steady press of pleasure, the perfect way Jake pushes into him, the shuddering delight that ripples through Blaise's body as Jake splits him wide.

They find a rhythm together, Blaise letting himself bob lightly with the motion of their bodies, letting Jake thrust into him until he can't think, until he thinks he'll blow apart into a million glowing-hot pieces or burn entirely to ash.

"I'm so close," Blaise says, his hands bracing now, his body moving with Jake's, the need coiling deep within him, spiralling until he thinks he can lose himself in this feeling forever.

Jake moves faster, shifting, chasing, until Blaise is suddenly consumed by a flare of pleasure exploding inside him. 

"Oh," Blaise says, and his voice trembles. "Fuck, yes. I--" He breaks off in a groan that's swallowed by a gasp. 

"That's it?" Jake asks, and the words are rough against Blaise's ear. All Blaise can do is nod, and then Jake's moving faster, pushing deeper. 

Blaise's fingers tighten against the headboard, the edges of the wood digging into his skin. He starts shaking and hears Jake's body, skin slapping against his. It's not that Blaise loses consciousness; it's more that he stops thinking, starts feeling, and his body convulses as he shouts, his spunk shooting across the pillows, his arse clenching around Jake's length, his nails digging into the headboard. Madly, he thinks they might be claws. He's not sure of anything anymore, other than the way his body's trembling, prickling so hotly, so angrily. 

And then Jake's crying out, his body shuddering against Blaise, and Blaise feels him come, wetly, deeply inside Blaise's body. 

Afterwards, there's silence. Jake detaches, then gently rolls onto his side, pulling Blaise against him on the clean side of the bed. They're warm, and even though Blaise knows he has to Scourgify the sheets, he doesn't give a flying Hippogriff at the moment. It's too good, the cocoon of warmth and soft forgetfulness that is woven around them, the harmony of their breath and the quiet of his bedroom around them, the silence that is deeper than any words could be.

Jake is strong at his back, warm and draped loosely against him, his arm thrown across Blaise possessively.

It only takes a moment for Blaise to ruin it all. "You should leave," he says after a moment, and he knows he's being a fool the moment Jake tenses behind him. Still, Blaise can't stop himself. "You've got what you wanted, after all."

The only sounds in the room are Jake's soft breath, the quiet tick of the Wedgewood clock on the chimneypiece, the one Blaise's mother had given him when he'd first gone off to Hogwarts. Jake's hand moves away, and Blaise feels empty. Cold. 

"You don't mean that," Jake says finally. 

"I do." Blaise knows he's lying. He can't help himself. He's terrified to lie here with Jake, to sleep beside him. He doesn't trust himself not to fall for this man, doesn't trust himself not to get hurt. 

Jake doesn't move. "Blaise."

"I promised you a fuck, not a sleepover," Blaise says, as coldly as he can. His fingers twist in the sheets, and they tear beneath his touch, almost too easily. He looks at the ripped cotton in surprise, his fingers sliding through the ragged holes. 

"That's not what you…" Jake trails off, huffs out a quiet, irritated breath. "Do you really think that's all I wanted?"

 _If you wanted anything more, you wouldn't have stayed away,_ Blaise thinks. He can feel Jake still behind him. 

"Blaise," Jake says again, softly. "It's complicated."

"Not that much." Blaise hates the way his voice catches on the last word. He coughs, shifts, pulling away from Jake, settling at the edge of the mattress. "Look, I'm tired. This was great, but I want to sleep now." He tries to keep his tone light but firm. "Alone."

Jake hesitates, and Blaise can almost feel the uncertainty rolling off of him. _What is this? What do I do? Should I go?_ The words slide through Blaise's mind; it takes him a moment before he realises they're not his. 

"Please." Blaise doesn't want to fall apart. Not here. Not in front of Jake Durant. He feels stripped raw, uncertain. He doesn't like the feelings that are sifting through him, the deep, unhappy ache that's welling up now that the frissons of pleasure are fading. He feels a fool. A stupid, idiotic fool. 

The mattress dips; Blaise can feel Jake pull away, roll over. Tension stretches between them; Blaise knows he's made a mistake. He should never have gone to the club, should never have waited for Jake. This won't go well. It can't. He wants too much from someone who isn't willing to give it. 

_You don't know that._ The whisper through his mind is almost imperceptible. 

"I do," Blaise says, and he doesn't turn around. He looks at the pool of light across the night stand, the bright shine of the lamp against the whitewashed wood. "Just go, please."

He hears Jake gather his clothes, put them on in silence. "Blaise," Jake says quietly.

Blaise closes his eyes. Doesn't answer. 

After a moment, Jake walks out; Blaise listens for the soft fall of his footsteps down the hallway, the whoosh of the Floo. 

The flat falls silent. Blaise breathes out, his body aching, his heart heavy and hard in his chest. He presses his face against the clean pillow; he can still smell the musk of his spunk, still feel the stickiness of Jake seeping out from his crease. He pushes himself up out of bed, goes into the en suite and cleans himself up. When he looks in the mirror, he studies his face, sees the greyness of his skin, the dull pain in his dark eyes. 

"You're a bloody fool, Blaise Zabini," he says to himself, and then he pads back into the bedroom, crawling back beneath the coverlet. He closes his eyes. Exhales. It'll be better in the morning, he thinks, but he knows it won't be. 

He thinks he's fallen for Jake Durant, like a sodding idiot schoolboy with a disastrous, unrequited pash. It's nothing that Blaise has ever felt before. Not really. Not like this. 

Blaise opens his eyes, stares blankly at the wall, a swell of uncomfortable feelings rushing through him. 

He doesn't sleep.

***

Draco watches Durant from across the cold courtyard filled with Dementors. There's something off about him this morning, Draco thinks, more than just the trial of being forced to endure these creatures at such an early hour on a Monday morning. It's a certain set to Durant's jaw, the way his mouth turns down at the corners, the sharp glance he gives Draco the moment he feels Draco's Legilimens sweep against his mind.

To be fair, the latter had been an accident. Whilst Draco's control has grown by leaps and bounds each day he's found himself here in this grim, ghoulish gendarmerie, he still sometimes slips, lets his mind brush past the others, particularly when he's curious. Burke's lectured him more than once about the impoliteness of such an act. Draco tries to be careful, but it's harder when he's tired, and he's so very worn out this morning. He's still reeling from Friday night, from his uncle's breaking into Gringotts and the aftermath. The Aurors had pulled him in for questioning--to help the search, they'd said, but Draco thinks there's a bit of worry that Draco'd somehow helped. As if he would. At least Durant had gone through the same on Saturday, or so Pans had told him when she'd firecalled last night. Althea'd been the one put after him, early in the evening, which Draco doesn't think is fair since he'd been forced to endure Arthur Maxton asking ridiculously pointed questions until Bertie'd shown up and insisted they had more than enough of a statement from Draco, thanks ever so. Maxie hadn't been able to argue though. Not with the Deputy Head Auror. 

Bertie'd pulled Draco aside, made certain he was all right. It'd felt strangely awkward, Draco thinks, in a way that he hadn't expected. He's proud of Bertie, proud of what his mentor has accomplished, the place in the hierarchy Bertie's achieved. But Draco'd been so very aware, standing in the hallway, with Bertie studying him, of how the gulf between them is widening now that Draco's an Unspeakable. It's not as if he doesn't feel it with his old team. Watching them work together at Gringotts had only made it so very clear that he's no longer part of Seven-Four-Alpha. Draco misses them. Misses being an Auror. Misses arguing a case point with Harry at the white board, misses seeing Pansy's face light up when she's explaining an obscure point of magiforensicology, misses Blaise looking up from a file, eyes shining when he's made a connection, his mouth stained blue from sucking on the tip of a sugar quill. 

Fuck, but he even misses Althea eyeing him warily from her desk as she flips through a box of file jackets. 

Draco reminds himself it's worth it in the end. Legilimency fascinates him, and his skill with it makes him feel good. Useful. Talented, even. And then there's Harry. Draco'd give up anything to be able to lie in bed with Harry on a lazy Sunday afternoon, both of them dozing together. He knows that. 

But it doesn't mean Draco doesn't miss what he's lost. 

His gaze drifts back to Durant, who just says, "Don't," without looking over at Draco. Durant's surrounded by Dementors, and if Draco squints just a bit, he can almost see the wisps of energy curling off of Durant's exposed skin, wafting towards the Dementors' bent heads. Draco exhales, and his breath is a soft white puff in the cold air. 

"I didn't mean to," Draco says, and his voice is a bit too loud in the quiet of the containment unit. They're here alone, him and Durant, at least for the nonce. Burke and Dee have gone off with Shah, leaving them behind, to discuss the fate of the Dementors with the Luxembourgian delegation that'd arrived a half hour ago, Tomás Furtado da Luz on their heels. Draco can only imagine the shouting that's going on in the warden's office, Dee slamming the metal tip of his cane against the floor to make a particular point, Burke's face getting redder the more idiotic the solicitors are. He's half-glad they'd told him to stay. To be honest, he'd rather be with a contingent of Dementors than a roomful of politicians. 

At least the Dementors have souls. Of a sort, Draco supposes.

For now, though, he rubs his cold hands together and just says, a bit petulantly, "It's not as if I could get past your Occlumens anyway."

Durant's mouth twitches slightly. "Better for both of us," he says, and he turns, moving towards another pack of Dementors. They have to feed them quickly this morning; they're due back at the Ministry by half-two for a debriefing on dear old Uncle Roddy. Merlin but Draco hates his family sometimes. They're off their fucking nut, he thinks. The whole bloody lot of them. 

He feels the cool brush of a Dementor against his arm, and Draco pulls away, scowling towards it. Not that the Dementor gives a damn; the quick flare of his temper is only that much more enticing to it. Draco does his best to tamp that back down, but the Dementor's already inhaling the sharp twist of anger, breathing it in with a dry, rattling gasp. 

"Careful." Durant glances over at Draco, and when he does, Draco catches a glimpse of love bites on the side of his neck, small, purpled marks that disappear beneath Durant's collar. Draco wants to ask about them, wants to know exactly what Durant did after Althea let him go. To be honest, Draco's not certain if he'd rather those marks come from Blaise or from someone else. Neither option seems all that appealing to him. 

So he holds his tongue and turns back to the Dementors surrounding him, turning his palm up as he concentrates on it, letting that faint twist of curiosity in him rise up, seep out of the ridges of his fingertips. The Dementors lean forward again, drinking from the tiny push of Draco's feelings and thoughts. It's barely enough, Draco knows, and they're so damned hungry. Still, he's surprised by their restraint, by the careful way they take what he's offering, sharing it amongst themselves. If he doesn't look at them--not directly at least--Draco can almost get glimpse of who they used to be. A quiet, uncertain woman, her dirty blond hair pulled back from her gaunt face. A sharp-nosed man, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, watching Draco carefully as he lets another puff of pity slide off his palm. 

Draco moves through the Dementors; they make way for him, their robes sweeping out of the way with a soft rustle, the faint stench of dead things drifting from the folds. Draco's learnt not to be afraid of them--not entirely at least, although he thinks a certain worrisome caution is perfectly acceptable, not to mention healthy--and they've grown careful with him as well, realising, like a throng of feral cats, that sustenance comes with Draco. They come close, but they don't touch, don't give him cause to flinch, to run away. 

Not that Draco will admit it to anyone, but he's almost grown fond of the wretched creatures.

And yet there are some that linger at the edges, watching him almost warily. Sometimes they'll feed from Jake, or Burke, or Dee, but if Draco comes close, they flinch away, turning towards the iron scrollwork and glass panes that mark the boundaries of their cage. 

Today, though, one of them moves closer. It's hungry, Draco realises, and an unexpected rush of empathy washes through Draco. He reaches his hand out towards the Dementor, holding still. The Dementor hesitates, the frayed edges of its sleeves fluttering ever so slightly, a slow, uneven breath shuddering its shoulders. 

Draco lets a soft, wispy whiff of pity waft from his wrist. The Dementor leans in, its hood falling forward, nothing but a dark blankness. 

Until it's not. 

A familiar face forms in the depths of the void, round and rattish, with scraggly grey-white fuzz across plump cheeks and bright, nervous eyes. Draco knows this face, saw it over and over again in the shadows of the Manor, watching him, peering out at him from behind doors and corners, always looking for Draco to cock up, always waiting for some titbit of gossip with which he could scurry back to the Dark Lord, using it to shore up his crumbling status. 

"Peter Pettigrew," Draco says, his voice barely a whisper, but the Dementor jerks back, pulls away, and then the moment's gone, the man's faded away. 

Draco stares at the Dementor, neither of them moving, neither of them breathing. He tries to push out with his mind, feel the remnants of the man, but there's nothing there anymore. Just an emptiness that's worse than the horror of looking a dead man in the face. Draco wants to turn away, wants to run for the hallway, leave Durant behind, but he can't. 

He won't. 

Instead he closes his eyes, breathing out. He thinks of Pettigrew, of the silver hand the Dark Lord had given the man, of how it had strangled him when he'd allowed Harry to escape the Manor. Draco remembers his father and Rodolphus pulling Pettigrew's limp body from the dungeons, laying him at the feet of a raging Dark Lord. How could Pettigrew have gone from that to this? 

Draco's eyes flutter open. The Dementor's pulling back, pushing into the throng. Draco thinks about stopping him, thinks about trying his Legilimens again, pushing into whatever consciousness is still there behind that tattered hood. 

He can't bring himself to do it. 

The Dementor looks back at Draco. For a moment, Draco thinks he sees the face again, as through a darkened mirror, a murky reflection of a dead man's features before they slip away again. 

Draco can't move. Can't think. His hand is shaking; he drops it to his side. 

"Malfoy," Durant says, his voice a bit sharp. When Draco turns towards him, slow, uneasy, Durant's frowning at him. "You all right there?" 

"Yeah," Draco says, but his voice rasps against his throat. Durant's just watching him, his brows drawing together. Draco breathes out, shakes his head, trying to clear it. He looks back towards the Dementor, but it's gone now, lost amongst the others. "Just a ghost."

And then Durant's by Draco's side, solid and warm and oh so very _human._ His hand settles between Draco's shoulder blades, and the wide press of his fingers calms Draco, settles him. "Did you see something?" Durant asks, leaning forward, and Draco can smell the bright notes of his cologne, the bite of lemongrass and the warmth of musk. Draco closes his eyes and remembers that smell on Harry's sheets three months past, the angry twist of jealousy when he'd first found out about Jake Durant. His life's changed so much, so quickly. Look at him now, taking comfort from Harry's ex. Or calling Harry _Harry_ , for that matter, or giving up his career to be with his boyfriend. He wonders if he should be more uncertain about all of this, but then he thinks of the gentle kiss Harry given him this morning, standing barefoot and barechested in the middle of the Grimmauld kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand, his hair rumpled, his jaw still unshaven, his eyes sleepy and soft. When Draco had pulled back, smiling, and asked what that'd been for, Harry'd just laughed, then kissed him again, pulling Draco closer, murmuring against Draco's lips that he just liked snogging him. 

Draco thinks he'd give anything up for this Harry. Not the irritating prat he'd gone to school with, or the polished bastard who'd walked through the corridors of Auror headquarters as if he owned the whole bloody place. But his Harry, the one who looks at him as if he hung the moon, the one who gives him those slow, heated smiles, the one who holds Draco close when he doesn't want to think, who wraps his arms around Draco's bent shoulders and holds him when the grief starts to overwhelm him again. 

When Draco looks at Jake Durant now, he doesn't see a rival. Not for Harry at least. 

"Malfoy," Durant says, his voice quiet, a bit troubled.

Draco nods after a moment. "My mind's playing tricks on me," he says, and he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. "I thought I saw a face I knew."

"Right." Durant's silent for a breath, and he studies Draco with cool blue eyes. "You can see them then." He doesn't sound happy. "What they used to be."

"A little." Draco gets the distinct impression that Durant's not thrilled about that. He shrugs. "Just a glimpse, I suppose."

Durant nods, and his frown deepens a little more. "You shouldn't, you know. Muriel can't--"

"But you can." Draco meets Durant's gaze. "Dee can."

"Because he's a fucking necromancer," Durant says, a bit sharply. He looks around them at the Dementors holding back, a few steps away from them, their hoods turned to watch. "He knows how these poor bastards are made. Of course he can see them--"

"And you?" Draco's mouth tightens. "You're some sort of super-Legilimens, the id of neuromancy--"

"I don't know what I am," Durant says, and his voice goes low. Bitter. "Christ only knows what my daddy dabbled in, and my mama's kin…" He trails off, looks away. "Seems like the Robichaus might have been a bit less upstanding of a family than they claimed to be."

It's not as if Draco doesn't know how that realisation feels. 

They stand silently for a long moment in the midst of a crowd of Dementors. The surrealism of it all isn't lost on Draco. He can feel the Dementors pulling at his emotions, trying to siphon off whatever he's let slide free of his Occlumens. He remembers his Aunt Bella teaching him to keep his mind clear, to put up those defences to keep the Dementors at bay when they glided through the Manor hallways, following Greyback to the upper salon where the Dark Lord was holding court. 

"Pettigrew," Draco says finally. He looks over at Durant. "That's who I saw. A Death Eater named Peter Pettigrew who died at my father's house eight years ago." Draco folds his arms over his chest, suddenly cold, despite the warming charms he'd sunk into his jacket as soon as he'd arrived at Azkaban this morning. He tightens his fingers in the thick wool, his shoulders hunching slightly. "Which is bloody ridiculous, so I must be mistaken." 

Durant doesn't answer, but Draco can feel the whisper of Durant's Legilimens against his mind; he opens up just enough to let that memory seep through, the image of Pettigrew's rodenty face shadowed beneath the hood. Durant frowns, then glances away. "I don't think your mind's messing with you," he says finally, and he rubs at the back of his neck, before looking over at Draco again. "Which makes me wonder how the fuck someone you knew eight years ago ended up here."

"That," Draco says unhappily, "is precisely what I'm asking myself."

He's bloody well certain neither of them have an answer. 

They both look up as the Spirit Screen sputters. Burke steps through, the screen sealing shut again behind her. She looks furious as she stomps down the stairs that lead down to the courtyard, her booted steps echoing in the quiet of the containment unit. 

"What's wrong?" Durant asks as she stops at the last step, her hand clenched around the black iron railing. The Dementors start to move towards her; Burke stops them with a wave of her hand, and they draw back again. 

Burke looks over at Draco and Durant. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with anger. She looks almost regal in her black wool jacket and trousers, the jacket cinched in at her narrow waist with a thin black belt. "Those sodding idiots," she says, and then she stops, pressing her lips together, breathing out through her nose. She draws in another breath before she says, "Luxembourg are taking these poor bastards. We're not fit to look after them, it seems. As if Barachiel Dee hasn't been nearly killing his fool self to take care of this lot."

Durant walks across the courtyard; Draco follows, not wanting to be left behind in a throng of Dementors, some of them starting to close in around him, a sighing rustle going through the group. "They have more resources," Durant says. "Maybe--"

"Fucking rubbish and you know it." Burke folds her arms across her chest. "If you think the ICW plans to do anything other than figure out their own way to weaponise these cursed souls, you're a damned fool, Jake Durant. And that's the last thing I think you are, so…" She trails off, and she looks away, her face crumpling. "They ought to be cared for," she says after a moment. "They never asked for this, any of them."

Draco thinks of Pettigrew, and he wonders. He glances back behind him, his gaze sweeping over the multitude of Dementors gathering together, their hooded heads bent towards one another. He thinks he sees faces, but they fade away before he can catch them. He looks back at Burke. "We can't fight the ICW. If they want to take them--"

"I know," Burke says, crossly. Draco's surprised, if he's honest. He hadn't thought her the sentimental type. She gives him a sharp look. "If they can't use them, they'll destroy them, you know. Kill them."

"Wouldn't that be better?" Draco's confused. "If they're already dead, wouldn't that set their souls free?"

Durant shakes his head. "Not the way Dementors are killed." He looks over at Draco. "The one that Kissed Theodore Burnham? You think they let it come in here?"

A chill settles across Draco's skin, colder than the air around him. "But…" He trails off; he doesn't quite understand. "They're immortal."

"They're not," Burke says, her voice quiet. "There's a spell that kills them. Destroys that bit of soul still left inside them, that last whisper of humanity. They blink out, become nothing but a pile of tattered rags. That human part of them? Snuffed out. Destroyed." Her voice quavers. "It's a second death, sprog. There's nothing of you that lasts through that. Nothing that can go over, right? Nothing that can pass through the Veil."

Draco's silent. He's not certain he believes in an afterlife. "Don't we all go into nothingness, though?" He looks back at the Dementors, a twist of worry going through him. 

"It's not just that," Durant says. "What Muriel means is that with a second death like that…" He rubs the back of his neck, then sighs. "All memory of them goes as well. Anyone still alive who knows them, forgets them. It's as if they never existed. They're wiped out, any trace of their humanity gone forever. It's a damnatio memoriae of the worst sort." 

"Circe," Draco breathes out. He feels a bit ill, a bit unsettled. He doesn't want to think about that kind of curse, about how horrible it would be to be forgotten in that way.

"It's what Dee's fighting against," Burke says. "Sometimes I think he's the only wizard who remembers this lot used to be like us." Her brow furrows; she looks out over the Dementors again. "I might not like them, but I certainly don't want them erased entirely. No one deserves that, sprog. Not even these poor wankers."

Draco can't really disagree.

***

Harry hates crisis meetings. He's been in too damned many of them as of late. Still, he squares his shoulders and walks into the conference room just down the hall from the Minister's office, Zabini, Whitaker and Parkinson on his heels.

The room's large and grand, meant for diplomatic functions and meetings of all the Minister's senior undersecretaries and department heads. Four tall arched windows line one wall, looking out onto the sunny Atrium below. The walls are three-quarters panelled in a dark walnut, the wood matching the gleaming table that stretches out along the length of the room. Upholstered-back chairs fill the sides, one after another, with their deep purple brocade and neatly turned arms polished a deep brown. Portraits of Ministers past hang on the wall opposite the windows, their oil-painted faces frowning down at the gathering, frustrated by the rules that keep them from speaking aloud during official business. 

Harry's boots barely make a noise as he crosses the plush purple carpet towards Gawain Robards and Bertie Aubrey. Still, Aubrey turns, and he smiles, holding out a hand to Harry. His bushy white moustache seems even bigger than usual, Harry thinks.

"Inspector Potter," Aubrey says. "Well done this weekend." He nods to the rest of Seven-Four-Alpha behind Harry. "The whole lot of you."

"Only doing our job," Harry says, but honestly, he doesn't think they've done a hell of lot the past few days. They still don't know where Lestrange is, although Whitaker's narrowed it down somewhat, or what the hell Eddie Durant's up to. Or why Rodolphus Lestrange needed a bloody fifteenth century grimoire, for that matter. "But I'll admit I'd be a bit happier if we had Lestrange in custody."

Aubrey claps Harry on the back. "We'll catch him, lad. Never fear."

They take their seats, Seven-Four-Alpha to Harry's left, Gawain and Aubrey to his right, all of them facing the windows. A couple of undersecretaries are on the other side, close to the head of the table. Harry can always pick them out of a Ministry crowd just by the suits they wear, all nattily tailored, with perfectly knotted silk ties. He'd almost think Draco might fit in well with that lot, except their hair's far too close-cropped, their mouths too tight and prudish. Even dressed up, Draco has a raw sensuality about him that Harry's certain would set the undersecretaries' teeth on edge. It's one of the things Harry loves most about his boyfriend. 

Luxembourg comes in next; Harry nods to Nadia Daifallah as she passes. She gives Harry a faint smile; he knows she's still annoyed about the whole bloody Dolohov situation. There's the rustle of paper, a cough here and there, the soft murmured hellos across the table, then the quiet conversations amongst factions. Zabini shifts beside Harry, smoothing the front of his jacket down. He seems a bit nervous, Harry thinks. Unsettled maybe. Harry gives him a sideways look.

"All right?" Harry asks, and Zabini glances up, his surprise evident. 

"Fine, guv," is all Zabini says in reply, but then the door opens and Saul Croaker strides in, all bony shoulders and lanky gait and rumpled white hair. Harry senses, rather than sees, Gawain tense on the other side of Aubrey, and Aubrey bends towards the Head Auror, murmuring something Harry can't quite make out. Gawain just nods. 

Hermione's behind Croaker, and then Jake, and Zabini shifts again in his chair, turning his head away as Jake walks beside Hermione, laughing at something she's just said. Harry's gaze doesn't linger on them; Draco comes in next, along with Muriel Burke, and he looks uncertain and unhappy to be caught up in these proceedings. Harry doesn't blame him. There's nothing worse than combining politicians with law enforcement, then throwing the spooks into the mix as well. He settles in his chair. It's going to be a long afternoon. 

Still, Harry smiles at Draco as he takes a seat across the table, a few chairs down from Harry. Draco tucks his hair back behind his ears, pretending to ignore Harry, but Harry can tell by the faint quirk of his mouth upwards that he knows exactly where Harry is and what he's doing. 

Zabini's knee nudges Harry's. "Stop being so obvious," Zabini says, under his breath, and Harry just frowns at him, even as he knows Zabini's right. Particularly since Muriel Burke's watching Harry with an unblinking, steady gaze. She doesn't look happy. Harry glances away from her first, his face warming. He shifts his shoulders against the brocade of his chair, then folds his hands in front of him, neatly, on the table. 

And then Kingsley's walking in, his pale lavender shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He's not in official robes, Harry notes, despite most of the rest of the individuals at the table--Hermione and Seven-Four-Alpha excepted--being in uniform. Kingsley's followed by a retinue--his aide Michael Cressy leading the group, and Harry catches sight of Mia Nussbaum just behind him, tall and elegant in her tailored suit, her short, greying hair smoothed back from her high forehead, her sallow cheeks almost gaunt in their sharpness. Harry'd like to know what the aide to the ICW's Supreme Mugwump is doing here, particularly when she looks his way, her dark eyes settling on Harry before she smiles, thinly, tightly. Mia never has been fond of Harry.

"Tell me things," Kingsley says, taking the seat at the head of the table as Michael puts a file jacket in front of him. Nussbaum sits beside Kingsley, her face impassive. Kingsley looks towards Gawain. "This grimoire that was taken on Friday night. Do we know what it is?"

"Our team is still working on that," Saul Croaker says before Gawain can answer, and Kingsley glances his way. Gawain's lips thin, his nostrils flare, but he doesn't push back. At least not yet. Croaker doesn't look across the table at the Aurors; he puts all his focus on the Minister. "Granger's been doing some research with the magical theorists downstairs, haven't you, Granger?"

Hermione looks distinctly uncomfortable, but she sits forward in her chair, her sleeveless pink floral dress a bright splotch of colour against the dark wood and plummy upholstery. "We've been trying to track down any potential references to a fifteenth century Italian grimoire. The vault manifest Gringotts supplied us with isn't incredibly forthcoming about the provenance, but we can't find any supporting evidence that would indicate that Rodolphus or Rabastan Lestrange purchased such a grimoire."

"Parents?" Kingsley asks, and Hermione shakes her head. 

"Nothing in the probate records submitted at the time of their deaths. Nor could we find any record of purchase by either of their wives." Hermione flips open a grey file jacket, the tab on it marked with a bright red strip of Spellotape along the edge. She frowns down at a paper before looking back up at Kingsley. "Although, with a bit more pressure on Gringotts, we did get a date for when the grimoire was put into Rodolphus Lestrange's vault. The seventeenth of April, nineteen-ninety-eight, and the deposit was made by Bellatrix Lestrange. She moved it from her vault."

There's a silence around the table until Harry breaks it by saying, "That was just before we broke into her vault for the Horcrux." He doesn't look down the table at Draco; it feels strange to be talking about that with him here.

Hermione nods. "Roughly two weeks before. And it'd only been in her vault for the previous six months." She flicks her wand to the top piece of parchment in her file jacket; an image of it floats in the air above the table. "We found this in her vault record. It's a slip detailing the initial deposit of the grimoire, which gives us a title at least. _De morte fugienda_ , written by Paolo Biondo in the mid-fifteenth century. He wasn't well known amongst magical theorists, but he did have a certain amount of influence on the latter works of Agrippa and Paracelsus." Another sweep of her wand, and the image changes to the frontispiece of an antique book, roughly printed. "This is a partial copy, published in 1603 by a Dutch printer. By this time the work itself had disappeared, with only bits and pieces of it appearing in the writings of other magical philosophers. We don't even know if this printed copy is actually really part of the grimoire itself. Without a verified copy of the original we have no way of knowing if Geert Kloet actually saw the real grimoire before he published it or if he was full of bollocks."

Kingsley nods, then glances down the table at Draco. "Malfoy. Any recollection of something like this being in your family possessions?"

Draco's silent for a moment, and Harry can almost feel the discomfort rolling off him, then he shakes his head. "Not from the Manor. My mother might know if it belonged to her family." 

"Find that out," Kingsley says, and he looks back at Hermione. "So I'm assuming if Lestrange wanted this grimoire, it's not soft and fluffy family recipes."

"It's a necromantic grimoire, sir," Hermione says, and she lets the flickering frontispiece fade away. "As I said, none of our theorists have seen it, but it's referenced in other works. Including those of our own Dr John Dee, necromancer extraordinaire." Even Harry's falling asleep on a regular basis in History of Magic hadn't kept him from learning about the court magician, astrologer, and would-be necromancer to Elizabeth I. He'd always wondered if Zabini's grandfather came from that particular line of the Dee family. Judging by the way Zabini tenses beside him, Harry'd say that's a probable yes. 

Kingsley rolls his eyes. "Of course." He leans back in his chair, his knuckles pressed to his mouth for a moment before he says, "Is Barachiel Dee aware of this grimoire?"

No one answers for a moment, and then, just as Kingsley sits forward again, a furrow digging in between his brows, Muriel Burke says, "Probably."

"Explain." Kingsley folds his hands on the table. His brown fingers are interlaced, his thumb rubbing against the ball of his palm. 

Muriel hesitates, then she says, "If anyone's going to know about the existence of a necromantic grimoire, we all know it'll be Dee." Her gaze flicks towards Zabini, then back to Kingsley. "Pardon my bluntness, sir, but fuck our magical theorists downstairs. Between Barachiel Dee and Draco Malfoy we've the best resources on this bullshit right at our fingertips. Dee's a morbid bastard, sure, but he's a bloody good necromancer, whether or not we're keen to admit it. And Malfoy here, well, it's his uncle we're after, the one what killed his father, so...." She sits back in her chair. "Just my two Knuts."

Kingsley's gaze shifts down to Draco again; Draco's looking down at his hands, his cheeks flushed. Harry wishes he could spare him this; he half-hates Muriel Burke for pointing out Draco's relationship to Rodolphus Lestrange in front of a room full of sodding politicians. 

The room's quiet again, and Harry watches Draco swallow, shift slightly in his chair. "Uncle Roddy," he says after a moment, "wasn't the one interested in things like that, though." He looks up at them all. "He was more about getting pissed and smashing things, not really the finer points of necromantic theory. My aunt, on the other hand…." He pauses, and Harry can see the way his face shifts a little bit, the wrinkle of disgust that twitches his nostrils just so. No one else seems to notice, though, except perhaps Zabini and Parkinson, the latter of whom's frowning at Draco, her mouth pinched with worry. Draco draws in a deep breath, twisting his quill through his fingertips, before he says, "Aunt Bellatrix would have thought that a volume like that should be protected. What my uncle wants with it now, though, I can't really say."

That's not entirely true, Harry thinks. Draco has suspicions, ones they've discussed over the weekend. Just not ones he's willing to admit here. Neither Harry or Draco want to put words publicly to their deepest fear, to their worry that all the signs are starting to point to Lestrange being fool enough to try to bring Voldemort back. Harry hopes they're wrong, hopes that Lestrange isn't that big of a fool. But Draco thinks his uncle might be. Rodolphus was a true believer, Draco says, one who would have given his life if Voldemort had required it of him. Fanatical, Draco had called him, and Harry remembers the shudder that had gone through Draco's shoulders when he'd said that. Draco doesn't have much love for his uncle--or for his aunt either. He's glad she's dead, he'd told Harry. He only wished she'd have taken his uncle with him.

"So," Kingsley says after a moment, "Rodolphus Lestrange uses your brother--" He nods towards Jake. "--and his fucking Hand of Glory to break into his own Gringotts vault to get a necromantic grimoire that his wife deposited there from her own vault before the end of the war." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "For what reason we've no fucking bloody idea, not to mention with whom--"

Parkinson clears her throat; heads turn her way. "Actually, I've been able to track the magical signatures of the individuals in the vault." She glances at Harry, and he nods. "I can say with certainty that Eddie Durant was in the vault, and most likely the one to use the Hand of Glory, which would make sense if he was the one to create it. Whatever he did to it definitely juiced it up. Additionally, I've cross-referenced another magical signature to one MACUSA had on file for Les Harkaway, our little recently Marked American friend." She doesn't glance Draco's way; Harry catches Draco's quick brush of fingertips across his forearm. He says it hasn't been hurting lately, not the way it had in New York, but Harry's not certain he believes him. 

"And the woman?" Aubrey asks, turning his head towards Parkinson. 

She leans forward, the better to see him. "I don't have a definitive match, but I have strong evidence to support her identity as Astrid Yaxley Harkaway, Our Les's mummy and Aldric Yaxley's daughter." 

Draco looks over the table to Harry, his surprise written across his face. "Are you serious?"

Harry nods. "Parkinson's matched it partially off Astrid Yaxley's old Ministry records."

"I've put a request in," Whitaker adds, "for any official MACUSA files on her." She pushes back a loose lock of dark hair that's fallen from the thick braid wrapped around her head. Her narrow shoulders are hunched, the pale blue striped cotton of her shirt pulled tight across them. She hasn't been doing well the past few days, Harry thinks, and he's certain it has to do with her mother's death. The anniversary was last week, but Harry doesn't know what to say to her, whether she wants it acknowledged. He knows he doesn't like to think about his parents' deaths when October comes around. Whitaker looks over at Harry, almost apologetically. "With the way MACUSA's protecting Aldric Yaxley, though, I don't know that I'll get them." 

"But this is the first solid tie we have putting Lestrange and Dolohov together with Aldric Yaxley," Harry says, turning back to Kingsley. He can feel Aubrey and Gawain watching him. "It's not much, but it's something to work with."

Gawain nods. "With apologies to Sergeant--" He stops, then says, "To Unspeakable Malfoy, but do we have any information about the Muggle account linked from Lucius Malfoy's Gringotts vault?"

"It's a Swiss banque privée," Zabini says. "And one not exactly forthcoming about its clientele, as you might imagine." He nods towards Nadia Daifallah. "I'm working with the ICW legal team to get past that, but it might be tomorrow before I have that information. It's not an account in either Lucius Malfoy or Rodolphus Lestrange's name, though. I'm fairly certain we're going to be dealing with an intermediary of some sort. There are just far too many levels of protection in place."

"Such as?" Nussbaum asks, her German accent faint but still detectable. She looks truly interested for the first time, one perfectly groomed eyebrow going up above the rim of her glasses. Harry's never really liked Mia, not that much. She's cold at best, manipulative at worst, and he's never trusted her not to fuck him over. He still doesn't.

Zabini rubs at the corner of his jaw. There's what looks like a bruise there, just above his collar, Harry notices, and then his gaze flicks towards Jake. That's always been the place Jake had liked to mark him, Harry realises. Just high enough to be seen if someone looked the right way. It annoys Harry, if he's honest, but he doesn't know why. Not because he's jealous. More because he doesn't want Jake to be toying with Zabini. Using him as a convenient rebound. He'll have to keep an eye on that, he thinks.

"For every transfer there's at least two bounces to other banks across the Continent," Zabini says. "Random ones, I think, but the money shifts two to three to four times in a twenty-four hour period before landing in Switzerland. It took a while to figure that out, but once I did, it's a pretty solid pattern if you know what to look for."

Croaker drums his long, parchment-coloured fingers against the table. "The Department of Mysteries might be able to track them faster.'

Before Zabini can object, Gawain snorts. "Fuck off, Saul. This part's ours." He gives Croaker a steely look. "Keep your spooks digging about in your own rubbish, thanks."

For a moment, Harry worries that Croaker might pull his wand, but Hermione leans over, murmurs something in Croaker's ear, and he relaxes back into his chair, shooting Gawain a thin smile. "As you wish."

Hermione shifts in her chair. "The Unspeakables will be shifting some of our current focus away from the Dementor issue within the next few days." She doesn't look at Harry; she catches her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it for a moment before letting it slip free. "Luxembourg has decided--and Mia, correct me if I'm wrong--that the Dementors currently in Azkaban will be moved into ICW custody by next week."

Burke and Draco exchange a guarded glance; Jake's mouth tightens ever so slightly. None of them like this idea, Harry realises. Frankly, neither does he.

"That would be my understanding," Nussbaum says, nodding. "The final paperwork should be filed at the court in Brussels by noon tomorrow."

Something twists uneasily through Harry at her smug tone. "You can't take the Dementors," he starts to say, but Nussbaum turns her cold, steady gaze on him. 

"We can, Inspector Potter," she says, "and we will." The other Luxembourgian delegates are nodding along with her, save for Nadia Daifallah, who's turning her long, black quill between her fingers. "Merlin knows with the issues your prison has had as of late, there's no proper plan in place for caring for the creatures. Having observed their interactions with Barachiel Dee and his team, it seems the better choice to move them into our care. "

Harry glances Draco's way; all Draco does is shake his head, ever so slightly. Muriel Burke looks bloody furious, but she's keeping silent for once, Harry realises. This is worse than he'd expected. 

"In any matter," Hermione says after a moment, and the look she gives Harry is sympathetic. "Unspeakable Muriel Burke will remain with Barachiel Dee and Hassan Shah to facilitate that transfer out of Azkaban, whilst Draco Malfoy and Jake Durant will join me in working alongside the Auror Seven-Four-Alpha team to put all our available resources towards capturing or neutralising Rodolphus Lestrange."

This isn't something Harry's been told yet. His gaze shifts across the table to Draco; judging by the way he's calmly smoothing a thumb across the arch of his quill, Harry'd say Draco'd known that before he walked in the room. Curiously it's Jake who seems the most uncomfortable at Hermione's announcement. Well. Jake and Zabini, Harry thinks. Zabini's shoulders have tightened; he stares down at the papers on the table in front of him, his hands flattened to either side. 

"I think that's a brilliant idea," Kingsley says, nodding. "Whatever resources we can share the better." He pushes his chair back a bit. "Let's find these bastards as quickly as possible."

"There's still the question," Nadia Daifallah says, her voice quiet, "about the transfer of Antonin Dolohov into ICW custody." 

An awkward silence falls across the room. 

"I'm not certain this is a good time," Nussbaum starts to say, but Nadia interrupts her. 

"There's been a formal complaint made in regards to prisoner treatment," Nadia says, and she looks around the table, her face defiant. "I myself have concerns about the manner in which Dolohov has been--"

"He's being coddled like a fucking prince," Croaker says, and he holds up a hand when Nadia tries to protest. "One incident, girl. One, and it's been handled. We might as well have wrapped the bastard in cotton wool now, what with the bloody procedures we've put in place, eh, Granger?"

"Dolohov is being monitored," Hermione says, but the words don't carry her usual forcefulness of belief. Harry thinks she's having doubts of her own. He glances over at Whitaker; her sharp features are composed, calm. Harry wonders if the complaint came from her. It wouldn't surprise him, to be honest. 

Nadia just looks at Hermione, her lips pressed together. They've always liked each other, Hermione and Nadia. This has to be putting strain on the two of them. Hermione won't turn towards Nadia; she closes her file jacket instead. 

"You know," Nadia says, "that we can't let this go. Not after a complaint's been filed. We have to follow it through. Have to see where our investigation takes us. And our preliminary inquest suggests that Dolohov would be safer in our custody--"

"Like my father was?" Draco asks. His tone is sharp, probably more so than he intended, given the way his cheeks flush. Harry knows Draco's tells now, knows when he's embarrassed, when he thinks he's revealed too much of himself. Still, Draco lifts his chin, meets Nadia's gaze head on. "Not that I'm Antonin Dolohov's biggest fan, all things considered, but I'd hate for him to be ambushed the way my father was three weeks ago."

And Merlin, Harry thinks, has it not even been a month yet? He studies Draco's face, the thinness of it, the shadows that are still purple beneath his eyes. Draco's too sharp, too fragile still, at least in Harry's opinion, and Harry worries about him, especially when Draco wakes in the middle of the night, sliding out of bed and padding downstairs for a cup of tea in the darkness of the kitchen. 

Harry's gaze shifts towards Nadia. She has the grace to look embarrassed at least, but she won't back down either. Harry knows what she's like when she's stubborn. It's one of the things he likes about Nadia. 

"We've put extra security protocols in place," Nadia says. "Dolohov would have a safe transfer."

To be honest, Harry's not certain of that. If Lestrange could get to Lucius Malfoy, he can get to anyone. Especially Antonin Dolohov. 

"We'll revisit this discussion later," Kingsley says, his voice firm. "I'm more interested in focusing our efforts on Lestrange at the moment, though, Nadia, I recognise that Dolohov is a priority for your team. For now, I won't allow him to be extradited to your custody, and as I recall from the ICW Treaty of 1928, my signoff is required, without a unanimous vote by the ICW Security Council."

"True." Nadia leans back. "But I'll wear you down, Minister."

Kingsley gives her a warm smile. "I hope you do." He stands, and Nussbaum does as well. "If you'll excuse me, I've other duties to perform, other meetings to attend." His gaze sweeps across the table. "In the meantime, I expect everyone in this room to work together, do I make myself clear? No more petty rivalries. I want Lestrange brought in, and I could give a fuck whether his arse is dragged in alive or dead." He looks at Gawain, then Croaker. "Shut this bollocks down, my friends. Before it brings all of us down with it."

And then he's gone in a flurry of senior undersecretaries and ICW officials, Nussbaum trailing after him. 

"Well," Aubrey says after a moment. "That might have gone worse."

Gawain snorts from his other side, then looks over at Croaker. "Potter leads the Lestrange investigation. Not Granger."

Croaker's smile is sharp and wide. "Thought I'd suggest Malfoy to head it up."

Draco's face is horrified. "I'd really rather not, sir."

"Just a lark, lad," Croaker says, and Harry thinks that's worse. He wants to ball his fist up, slam it into Croaker's face, but he doesn't. Instead he gathers his papers, tucking them back into the file jacket. Croaker's watching him, before he sighs and says, "I won't object to Potter, but Granger has full rights to share information with me."

"Done," Gawain says, and Harry has the distinct feeling his life is being signed away. He looks across the table towards Draco. 

"Only if the others agree," Harry says, but he knows they will. 

Merlin only knows where it will lead. Harry doesn't know what board they're playing on any longer, he's only sure that they're pawns in a much larger game.

The meeting breaks up; Harry stands, taking his time to gather his things, watching Draco from the corner of his eye. When Draco moves around the table, Harry falls into step with him, keeping enough of a distance between them to not be overly noticeable. Still, he catches the frown on Hermione's face; Harry chooses to ignore it. 

"Hey," Harry says quietly, and Draco looks over at him, giving him a faint smile. "You all right with working with me again?"

Draco's mouth twitches. He folds his file jacket against his chest. "I think I can survive," he says. "Managed it once, didn't I?" His voice is light, but there's a faint furrow between his brows. He's worried, Harry knows. To be honest, Harry is too. 

"You don't have to," Harry says. They walk out into the corridor, towards the lifts. Zabini and Parkinson are already waiting for them, along with Whitaker and one or two of the undersecretaries. Harry knows Hermione and Jake are following behind; he can hear the soft rumble of Jake's voice. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Honestly?" Draco slows, draws to a stop. "I won't be." The look he gives Harry is warm, soft. "I've missed Seven-Four-Alpha." He reaches out, almost as if he's going to touch Harry's arm, but he catches himself before he does, and his hand drops back to his side. He glances back towards Hermione and Jake, and his face closes off a bit. Harry hates that, but then Draco looks at him again, and something settles in Harry at the warmth of it. "I'll be fine."

"Good." Harry starts walking again; Draco falls into step beside him. "How late are you working today?"

Draco checks his watch. "Maybe half-five. No later than six. Why?"

Harry shrugs. "Just curious." Draco snorts at that, and Harry quirks an eyebrow. "What?"

"You're incorrigible," Draco says, but they're at the lift now, and he lets Parkinson lean in and kiss his cheek. "I'm fine, Pans," he says before she can ask. 

Parkinson tuts at him. "I was just expressing my joy in working with you again. At least for a little bit."

"I wish you were the only Unspeakable we had to deal with," Zabini says, half under his breath, and he's watching Jake walk towards them with Hermione. Definitely something to keep an eye on there, Harry thinks, and he's certain Parkinson agrees, given the frown she shoots Zabini's way. 

Jake doesn't say anything when he comes up, but his gaze flicks towards Zabini before he turns towards Draco. "Muriel's going back to Azkaban," he says. "She wants me to go over a few things this afternoon with you, if you're up for it."

Draco just shrugs. "If we must."

The lift dings open; they all step into it, Seven-Four-Alpha and the Unspeakables together. There's no room for the undersecretaries, so they wait. Harry stands in the middle, Draco pressed against one side of him, Jake on the other. Zabini's as far from the all as he can get, whilst Hermione frowns between Harry and Draco. 

"Christ, I've missed you," Harry murmurs into Draco's ear, and Draco smiles as the lift doors slide shut in front of them. 

Harry doesn't care if everything goes to hell around him. He has Draco back on his team, even if only for a few days, and the world feels as if it's back in order again.

***

Draco's elbows are aching on the carpet, and he's stretched forward at a rather awkward bend, but he doesn't much care as Harry's plowing into his arse. The stairs shift and creak beneath them with each press of Harry's hips, and Draco thinks he might just come undone if only he could get more comfortable.

It had started, of course, with Draco coming home from a ridiculous day at Azkaban and then that wretched crisis meeting followed by an hour and a half of training with Durant, which is not something Draco'd been expecting when he started out the day. Still, they work well together, he knows, nearly as well as he does with Burke, and Durant's good at pushing Draco with his Legilimency. But by the end of the day he'd been aching and empty and a bit heart-sore. All he'd wanted ten minutes ago had been a hot bath and a lie-down and then perhaps something to eat before bed, but Harry'd surprised him on the stairs on the way up to bathe, coming up from the kitchens, his feet bare, already changed into a pair of joggers and t-shirt.

"Hey, baby," Harry'd said, and then he'd pressed Draco against the wall, his mouth on Draco's, his hand sliding down to Draco's prick as everything heated up. Draco doesn't know quite the moment that led from it being a hot, slow kiss on the stairs to the current state of affairs. The only thing he knows is that it feels like it's been ages since they've had sex, though it's probably only been a day or two--both of them have been too tired, and he's had anxiety attacks at night more than once this past week. But he really wonders what he'd been thinking about when he'd walked into the house, now that he has his arse up in the air, his elbows braced on the stair above, and Harry's got one hand on the railing and the other on his waist. Really, Draco's certain this is a bloody brilliant way to get rid of all thinking for a bit.

"Spread your knees a little." Harry grunts the words out and pulls Draco back just a bit onto his prick. It's a deep angle, and Draco can feel the thrust of Harry's hardness almost in his gut. He usually likes it like this, fast, relentless even, but he's a bit worried about slipping and ending up at the bottom of the stairs in a heap.

Draco tries to shift his knees, but it's more difficult than one would think. He doesn't want to have to explain at St Mungo's exactly how he broke half his bones sliding on his face down the stairs. 

"Maybe we need to move up to the bed," Draco says, although he loves wantonly fucking here with no concern for decency. Draco'd worried for a few moments about Kreacher wandering past when Harry'd pushed him down, then decided it didn't much matter. It's not as if house elves don't know what goes on, anyway. Draco's quite sure the Manor elves have had an eyeful over the years. 

Harry smacks Draco's arse. "I quite like debauching you here. I just want to raise your arse a bit. I think you'd like it better as well."

And of course Harry would like this position, Draco thinks. He's not the one receiving the brunt of the thrusts on his forearms. Draco's got his trousers and pants shoved under his knees. The padding of the carpet on the stairs is making all the difference, although Draco thinks it could be cleaned--more than a bit musty when one has one's face shoved into it.

Halfway through the kiss, Harry'd started stripping Draco's clothes off and then pushed him down on the stairs, taking great joy in being a bit toppy--and really, Draco's rather fond of it as well, if he's honest. Harry'd shoved his joggers down, rubbed his cock against Draco's crease before saying the spells for quick prep and lube. Of course the lube spell's not as good as a bottle, but really, Draco's not complaining about the friction. That feels bloody incredible, and Draco loves being taken like this, loves having Harry take control from him, make him want to be shagged raw in the front hall. Draco's less concerned about all of that and more worried about the prospect of carpet burns on his elbows or a broken face from one wrong move.

"Careful," Draco manages to get out when Harry rocks his hips forward a bit too eagerly. 

The stairs make an odd noise and Harry halts his next thrust, his lovely, thick cock buried deep in Draco. "Is the house shifting?"

The stairs adjust in front of Draco, the angle smoothing out just a bit so he can rest more comfortable on his elbows. The padding on the stair also feels thicker. Suddenly the pressure in his arms is less. Draco spreads his knees easily, angling his arse up, and Harry sinks deeper. It's astounding, utterly lovely, in fact, and Draco moans in delight with the shift. "Fuck, like that. Don't stop, Harry. Put your back into it."

"I love how much my house is in love with you," Harry says with a laugh, the words punctuated by deep, slow thrusts that take Draco's breath away. "It just made you more comfortable, didn't it?" 

"Yes." Draco moans softly, pushing his hips back against Harry's. His hair's in his face, sticking to his sweaty cheeks, and he doesn't care. "I wonder if it's hoping we'll conceive an heir on the stairs." Draco does think the house doesn't quite understand the logistics of having two men as the primary couple, and yet, he has heard the odd story of pregnancy among wizards, so perhaps the house knows more than he thinks. Draco's thought about asking Granger about it, but he doesn't want her to laugh at him. Pansy would make his life a living hell if he asked her. His mother is not even an option, although she'd probably know some hair-raising stories about Grimmauld Place and the Black family that would make him never want to have sex here again. Although, to be honest, he's fairly certain even then Harry could convince him. He's that bloody good. 

Harry picks up his stroke as Draco flattens his forearms against the step, his body bowed and his skin prickling. "Let's not tell it that's impossible so it keeps trying. I'd do this again."

So would Draco. Now that his arms don't hurt and the position's better, he's skittering closer and closer to climax, his body throbbing with the stretch and the delightful pressure of Harry fucking him open. There's something about being head down, arse up that's the perfect remedy's for today's stupendously gruelling work.

"Shit. So close." Harry's pace is staccato now, quick, hard thrusts, and his prick is impossibly hard and thick in Draco's arse. Draco is floating, pinned only by the weight of Harry's body.

Draco shifts his shoulders, managing to get an arm under himself to wrap his palm around his dripping prick. He just needs a little more friction, and he pulls quickly in time with Harry's thrusts, barely needing to do it thrice before he can feel his pleasure take wing. "Fuck. Oh. There. Don't you dare fucking stop, Harry."

Draco's eyes close as his body starts to shake, and then he's clenching around Harry, his arse throbbing, and Draco hears himself shouting--how long, he doesn't know, but when he comes back to himself, his chest is hot and his throat is raw and sore. Harry bites off a curse, his fingers digging into Draco's waist, and then he's spilling inside of Draco, his spunk filling Draco's arse, seeping out with each slow roll of his hips. He slumps over Draco, catching himself on his palms so he doesn't crush him against the edge of the stairs.

"You're fucking amazing," Harry mumbles against the back of Draco's neck, sounding drunk. "How the fuck did I get so lucky?"

Draco blows a strand of hair out of his face, his shoulders shivering still and his arse clenching with afterspasms. "I don't know. You were evidently born under a fortunate star."

Harry just laughs, the sound muffled against Draco's skin. "You'll be the death of me, though, I think." He kisses Draco's shoulder blade. "Can you shag yourself to death?"

"Supposedly Raphael did," Draco manages to say. "Although Pansy says that's bollocks."

"Well, she ought to know," Harry says, and Draco thinks about getting angry and defending Pansy's honour, but to be honest, Harry has a point, even Pansy would admit that, and Draco's too bloody tired to care. Harry slides out and then helps Draco up to standing. The upper stairs shift back to their usual position and the light on the landing brightens. Draco hadn't even realised it'd dimmed whilst they shagged. He thinks he ought to be a bit disconcerted that the house is so cognizant of their sexual needs, but he's starting to get used to it. Draco can see their clothes strewn along the staircase, his shirt draped across the stairs below, Harry's joggers slung over the railing. He should care, but he'll gather them later, he thinks as Harry puts an arm around him and lifts Draco's legs up to wrap around his hips. Draco drapes his arms over Harry's shoulders, letting himself be held like this, boneless and tired and deeply sated. There are things Draco should tell him, he knows. Pettigrew for one, and his worries about the Dementors. But right now, right here, Draco feels warm and cared for and safe. He doesn't want to bring the outside world into this space; he wants to be drunk on Harry. 

"You smell lovely," Draco murmurs against Harry's skin. "All salty and sweaty like a lovely shag."

Harry kisses him softly. "Let's go up to bed. I might even let you bathe first before I wreck you again."

Draco shivers as his prick rubs against Harry's stomach. It's spent, but reviving. His arse is sticky with Harry's come, and he realises it might be a long night. He can't complain; the last thing Draco wants right now is to think. He'd rather lose himself in Harry. 

"Carry me to bed," Draco says imperiously, hiding a private smile as Harry follows his command and begins climbing the stairs with Draco wrapped around his waist. In all truth, Draco thinks, it's he who was born under a fortunate star if this is his life now.

It's almost enough to make him forget the darkness around them for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> As I mentioned above, I'm going to post in three weeks to give some time for holiday fest writing and also recovery from RL events. The next chapter should be up on Sunday, November 26.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco comes face-to-face with a ghost, Pansy faces something she'd rather not, and Harry is a True Gryffindor™. Or, in which everyone on Seven-Four-Alpha deals with family in the most unpleasant fashion, and almost no one is happy afterwards, but they all try to stick together and Do Their Best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps* Is this on?
> 
> J/k IT'S HERE!!! I'm so, so, so sorry this chapter took so long to post. I was finishing a killer fic with noeon for H/D Erised that Would Not End and required an insane amount of dedication and several extensions. (Whoops.) But we are back and Special Branch will be posting more regularly now. So sorry to have made you dear readers wait, and I hope this old-school, larger-format chapter (over 27K!) pleases you! It's about time things got cooking!
> 
> Lots of love to everyone who sent encouragement and worried about my wellbeing, and thank you all for waiting! (So much writing happening lately. SO MUCH OH MY GOD.) Thanks to noe for helping me get this one back on track properly (SB canon is getting wild and she is a master at wrangling it!) and to sassy-cissa for all she does, every day, including putting up with my very last minute chapter beta requests (I WILL BE BETTER NEXT WEEK, CISSA <3). This whole chapter is dedicated to her for EVERYTHING. So much love, so much respect. You are my heart, bb, and the one who smacks me when I flub up canon, lol. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Chibaken and bixgirl1 know that they are deeply loved, I hope, and discord and the Drarry Squad continue to be a wild and delicious source of inspiration to all drarry lovers. Also, enormous hugs to phd-mama, more than I can properly transmit here really.

It's just past dawn when Draco wakes up. He can hear the quiet hiss of tyres against wet pavement outside, the faint tap of rain against the window panes. The light filtering through the sheer curtains is pale and grey and watery, and he thinks about just lying here in the comfortable warmth of the bed, Harry snoring quietly beside him. 

But he's been trying to get back into his running schedule, which has been blown to bloody bits over the past few months. Draco blames Harry, of course. Back when he wasn't being shagged raw, he'd had no problems at all getting up in time to get a few miles in before work. Now he's feeling rather lazy and languid, his arse deliciously sore from the night before. 

When Draco sits up, Harry stirs. Draco stills, not wanting to wake him. Harry needs his sleep; he's a rotten arsehole if he wakes up too early. But then Harry curls onto his side with a soft snuffle and a sigh, and Draco can't help the faint smile that quirks his mouth at the corners. Harry presses his face into the pillow, his rumpled hair falling across his forehead. He looks so young, Draco thinks. Sleep's softened Harry's features, made him look as if he ought to be in Hogwarts still, and Draco wonders what it would have been like back then to wake up beside Harry Potter. His gaze slips down the curve of Harry's spine, down the long stretch of golden skin that disappears beneath the crumpled white sheet wrapped around Harry's hips. 

Harry's bloody beautiful, Draco thinks, and he wants to reach out, to run his hands along the solid muscles of Harry's back. He can't. Harry'd wake up, and Draco knows he wouldn't be able to go for his run then. For a moment, Draco thinks about it, thinks about Harry looking over his shoulder, annoyed at first, until he realises Draco's still naked beneath the sheet. It'd almost be worth it, really. Almost. With a sigh, Draco slips out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the worn woollen rug. He stretches, his body long and lean and naked, reflected in the mirror over the chest of drawers. Draco takes a moment to look at himself. He might not be in the best running condition of his life, but fucking Harry's been good for other parts of his body. His arse looks bloody phenomenal, if he does say so himself. 

Draco pads over to the dressing room. "Quiet," he murmurs as he touches the door, and it swings open almost silently, the house seeming to know Draco doesn't want to wake Harry. Most of the drawers and hanging space are still empty, but more and more of Draco's clothes are starting to make their way here, he realises, and that makes him feel a bit uncomfortable, as if he's losing a bit of himself and his autonomy in Harry and Grimmauld Place. Draco pushes that thought away, tells himself not to be ridiculous. He's happy here, and besides, if he wants to stay at his own flat, he can, whenever he chooses. It's not as if Harry's holding him here hostage, after all. That thought makes Draco snort. As if Harry could. Or would. 

The third drawer down holds most of Draco's running gear. He dresses quickly, pulling on pants and running shorts, then a breathable long-sleeve polyester t-shirt Pansy'd given him last Christmas, before working his feet into thick socks and his favourite trainers. Draco hesitates, then rummages for a work outfit, folding the shirt and trousers and tie before he carries them out into the bedroom. Fuck if he remembers where his wand ended up the night before. Probably still out on the staircase, to be honest, wherever Harry'd tossed Draco's clothes. 

Harry shifts in the bed, breathes out. Draco looks over at him, his brow drawing together in worry. He hopes Harry doesn't wake. Draco really needs this bloody run. For a moment, Draco thinks Harry's going to lift his head, but instead he presses his face into the pillow, his hair dark and rumpled against the white cotton. He snores lightly, and Draco relaxes, his mouth easing into a fond smile. Harry swears he never snores; Draco thinks he ought to record this for future argumentative purposes. 

Kreacher's out in the hallway when Draco steps out of the bedroom, his work clothes tucked under one arm. "Master Draco is leaving?" Kreacher croaks, a bit too loudly for Draco's comfort. 

"Hush," Draco says with a frown. "You'll wake Harry." He starts down the stairs, Kreacher thumping behind him. Honestly, Draco has no idea how an elf so small and scrawny can make that much noise when he wants to.

"Master Harry Potter is being very unhappy when he is waking and Master Draco is being not here." Kreacher trails a long, thin hand along the bannister. 

Draco stops on the landing next to the library. His clothes are still strewn across the floor. "Tell him I'm running into the office this morning." There are a few things Draco wants to do before he heads from the Department of Mysteries back up to the DMLE. Besides, he'd promised Burke he'd stop by; he thinks she wants to make certain he's all right with Durant and Granger taking over supervisory training for him. She hadn't been bloody happy about it yesterday afternoon, that had been obvious. Draco likes that Muriel's worried about him. It makes him feel a bit less like he's off on his own, reminds him of Bertie and the way he'd looked after Draco from his early days on the Auror force. 

Kreacher watches Draco unhappily as Draco finds his wand and his work shoes, using the former to miniaturise his work clothes before he tucks them into the pocket of his running shorts. He'll have to cast a charm when he gets to work to smooth out the wrinkles, but Draco's thrilled to be running back into the Ministry. He can feel the faint thrum of excitement through his body, the anticipation of muscles burning and a runner's high. 

"Master Draco is eating first?" Kreacher's stood on the second step, tugging at his ear. "Kreacher is making eggs--"

"I'll grab something when I get to the Ministry," Draco says. He's impatient to get going, but at the miserable look Kreacher gives him, Draco relents. Only slightly. "Fine. An oat flapjack then."

Kreacher's face brightens, and with a snap of his fingers, a small, flat rectangle of oats and sultanas and golden syrup zips from the kitchen and stops right in front of Draco's face, floating in mid-air. "Master Draco is being not as cranky with food in his belly." 

Draco doesn't know whether to laugh or snort at the self-satisfied look Kreacher's giving him. Or, if he's honest, to be a bit taken aback. Draco knows from living with house elves all his life that the moment they start worrying about feeding you, you've become theirs. It's just another reminder at how entwined his life has become with Harry's, and that makes Draco a tad more discomposed. Restless, in a way. He wonders if they're moving too fast, if three months or so together is really enough for him to be practically moved into Grimmauld when Harry hasn't even suggested it as a possibility. Not really. Not officially. And that makes Draco's chest tighten with worry, his breath catch in the back of his throat. He doesn't know that this is what he wants, doesn't know if he's comfortable with the way Harry's house opens up to him, with the way Harry's elf is watching him clutch the flapjack in his fingers so tightly that bits of it are falling off, skittering across the floor. 

So Draco tries to breathe, tries to eat the dry, crumbly oat cake, the sultanas a bit too sweet against his tongue. "Thank you, Kreacher," he manages to say, and he wants to flee the house, to feel the cool morning air on his face as he runs. He slides his wand into the pocket of his running shorts, feeling the expansion charm close around it, almost brushing his fingertips as he lets the hilt of the wand go. Draco wishes he had music to run to, but he's left that at his flat, and he doesn't want to go over there. Not right now. Not the way he feels. He looks back over at the house-elf. "Let Harry know I'll meet him at work."

Kreacher just frowns from the steps, still tugging at his ear as Draco makes his way down the darkened entrance hall, out onto the steps of Number Twelve, the door shutting behind him with a solid thunk. Draco rolls his shoulders, tries to displace the feeling of unease that's just settled over him as he stretches, making sure his calf muscles won't tense up on him as he runs. He looks around, the odd feeling that he's being watched popping up in his mind, but that's madness. There's no one on the street, no one in the small park across from the row of white-trimmed, dark brick townhouses. It's just him being ridiculous, Draco thinks as he pulls his hair back, securing it with a hair tie, and he pushes the worry to the back of his mind, and starts off down the street.

It's easy to lose himself in the steady thud of his trainers against the pavement. Merlin but Draco's missed this, the stretch in his muscles, the feeling of the air against his skin. It's only a bit sticky this morning, still cool, and even though the promise of August heat hangs in the humidity, it hasn't yet hit the city streets. There's a bit more traffic than Draco would like as he runs down Islington's high street, but Draco doesn't mind, not that much. The city's waking up around him, the sky still a bit grey and overcast, the rumble of lorries going past familiar and soothing in its own way. He loses himself in the joy of running through the city streets, of sidestepping wheelie bins left out for collection the night before, of pausing at intersections, waiting to make certain the red bus barrelling down the street misses him. He takes Rosebery Avenue through Finsbury, then Clerkenwell, running past shopkeepers arriving to roll up the gates on their entrances and the first small stream of workers stepping out of Tube stations, still a bit bleary, yawning as they clench paper cups filled with coffee or tea, steam curling from the small holes in the lids. 

Draco feels glorious, his feet striking against the filthy cement of the pavement, sweat rolling down his back. He'll shower in the Department of Mysteries when he gets there; there's a private loo with a full shower hidden behind the sparring room that Draco's made use of more than once. For now, though, he revels in his stink, in the musky smell of sweat and sex that still lingers on his skin from the night before. He runs past the garden in Bloomsbury Square, that tree-lined stretch of green between two streets of Georgian townhouses. He turns down Shaftesbury Avenue, his steps taking him past the Odeon, with its classical, carved-stone frieze high above the brightly coloured cinema posters. Draco's breathing hard, his lungs straining, his muscles protesting as he takes a left onto Charing Cross Road, headed down towards Trafalgar Square. 

The endorphins are hitting, making Draco push through the burn, and he's missed this so bloody much. It's almost as good as sex, not that he'll say that to Harry, of course, but even if he did, Draco thinks Harry might understand. He knows Harry's been slack on going to the gym as well, not that it's made much of a difference in his body. Harry's still solid and muscular, his hipbones a sharp, gorgeous cut that defines the flat ridges of his abdomen. Draco bloody loves Harry's body, the way it fits against Draco's, the heat of Harry's skin, the shift of his muscles as he presses Draco into their bed. 

And maybe it's the thought of Harry that makes Draco less attentive than he should be. He's only just passed the darkened facade of the Leaky, running around the metal scaffolding that's bolted against the half-renovated Muggle building beside it, when he hears the sharp pop of Apparition behind him, and he nearly stumbles when he hears a familiar voice say, "Draco."

Draco turns, his heart pounding, his Mark starting to ache underneath his sleeve. 

His uncle steps out of the shadows of the scaffolding, tall and broad-shouldered, his once dark hair now bright silver from his time in Azkaban, thick and shoulder-length and perfectly clean. His gaze sweeps over Draco, lips turning down at the sight of Draco's Muggle running clothes. There are wrinkles around his dark brown eyes, scored around his thin mouth. Rodolphus Lestrange had always been a handsome man, had always cut a dashing figure beside Draco's Aunt Bella. Their's hadn't been a marriage of love, more of convenience, at least on Bellatrix's end, Draco thinks. His aunt had never made a secret of her feelings for the Dark Lord, ones that Draco suspects were returned in whatever cold and empty fashion a bastard like that had been able to feel. But his uncle had been loyal to his aunt, if not faithful, more than willing to stand by her side, a step behind their mad leader. 

"Uncle Roddy," Draco says, and he already has his wand in his hand. "And here we've been looking everywhere for you." He raises his arm, trying to ignore the dull throb that's growing in his other forearm, just beneath the Mark. "Petrifico--"

And then his uncle flicks his fingers, tutting softly. Draco's arm twists, bends, painfully jerking behind his back. "None of that, Draco," Rodolphus says with a frown, and Draco's heart skips a beat. His uncle's never been that powerful, never been able to cast wandless magic so easily. Rodolphus moves forward, the edges of his open robe trailing across the pavement, dark grey against the stained concrete. Beneath the tailored wool, he wears a black suit, perfectly fitted and bespoke, along with a pale, dove-grey tie knotted neatly at his throat. He's not the filthy prisoner any longer, Draco realises, and a frisson of fear goes through him when he looks into his uncle's icy blue eyes. There's a touch of madness in there, Draco thinks, a vicious anger twisted through with the ragged edges of a broken mind. Rodolphus Lestrange is bloody dangerous, more so than even Draco had thought, and that realisation makes Draco still, makes him stop fighting against the spell that's keeping his wand arm pulled taut behind him. 

"The whole Ministry's looking for you," Draco says after a moment. "And you're a half-mile from them--"

"Amusing, isn't it?" Rodolphus eyes Draco. He still doesn't have a wand in his hand. "But I wanted to have a talk with my favourite nephew--" Draco snorts at that, and Rodolphus's mouth twists up on one side. "Yes, well, my only nephew, unless Rabastan's sired some brat secretly in the past, which I rather doubt, all things considered. And given you're such a difficult boy to track lately, I thought I'd make use of a surveillance system we've had in place for quite some time, courtesy of His Lordship." Rodolphus glances up towards the rooftop of the Leaky; Draco swears he sees one of the gargoyles holding up the cornice turn its head towards him, stone eyes flashing green. 

Draco glances back at his uncle. "So you thought I'd be by the Leaky, did you?" He takes in his uncle's clothing. "At half-six in the morning, and you fully dressed to the nines?"

"Everyone comes through the Leaky Cauldron at some point." Rodolphus looks half-amused. "Besides, who said anything about the hour?" 

A snap of Rodolphus' fingers jerks Draco's left arm up, the magic forcing his muscles to move as much as Draco strains against it. Another twist of his uncle's hand through the air, and Draco's sleeve ruches around his elbow without Rodolphus even touching him. Draco flinches. The power rippling around him is almost overwhelming; the only other person Draco's felt this level of magic from is Harry, and that frightens him. His uncle has never been this potent magically before. The Mark throbs angrily, an ugly black smear twisted across Draco's scarred skin. Rodolphus looks almost furious, his gaze flicking back up to Draco's face. 

"You defaced it," Rodolphus snaps. 

Draco lifts his chin. It takes everything he has not to look away. "And I'd do it again." For a moment, he thinks his uncle might strike him, but then the Mark flares, fierce and white-hot, almost sending Draco to his knees with the pain of it. His uncle's murmuring something, in a language Draco doesn't recognise, but it's almost melodic in a way, and then the gargoyle above moves, turning towards Draco, sharply teethed maw opening just as the world melts away, the shops and traffic along Charing Cross fading into a whirling darkness that pulls Draco away in a cacophonous rush. 

He lands in a shadowed room, his forearm throbbing and his wand gone. It takes Draco's eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. The windows are dirty; the faint light that shines through isn't natural, he realises. It's golden, tinged with a warmth that can only be from a Muggle sign outside. He walks over to the window, the floorboards creaking beneath his trainers. The street below is dark; Draco doesn't think it's in London. It's narrow and twisting and the Muggle bus making its way around the lamplit curves isn't red. He turns back to the room. The flat's small, he thinks, and filthy, with a rickety round table surrounded by straight-backed chairs on one side of the room and a worn leather chesterfield on the other, centred in front of the crumbling hearth. The mirror hanging above the chimneypiece is old, spotted in places where the silver's peeling off the back. It smells musty and damp, as if the place hasn't been aired out in years. 

And then the lamp floating over the table flares to life, casting a soft yellow glow across the scarred wood. 

"Welcome," his uncle says, stepping out of a doorway. The suit is gone now, replaced by a black velvet dressing gown that sweeps against Rodolphus' bare ankles. He walks into the kitchen, takes a mug from the cupboard, glancing back at Draco. "Tea?"

The very normalcy of the question makes Draco uneasy. "Where are we?" His fingers itch for his wand; he wonders if he could Summon it from wherever it's disappeared to. Somehow he suspects his uncle has thought about that.

His uncle picks up a teapot, steam still rising from the spout, and pours it into the mug. "At a bolthole the Dark Lord set up for our use back during the war." He glances around, his mouth twisted in distaste. "Not quite up to standard, but still better than Azkaban, I suppose."

Draco's mouth feels dry. He watches his uncle lift the mug of tea. "Why am I here?" The words scrape across the back of his throat. "And where's my bloody wand? And why aren't you dressed like you were before?"

Rodolphus takes a sip of tea, just watching Draco over the rim. "So many questions," he says after a moment. He walks back into the main room, takes a seat at the table, looking up at Draco. "I have some of my own." He points to the chair opposite him. "Sit." The word is sharp; it echoes in the silence of the room.

And as much as Draco doesn't want to, he feels a compulsion to walk over and drop into the seat his uncle's indicated. He glares at him. "You're controlling me."

"Perhaps." His uncle shrugs, sets his tea on the table. "You tried to destroy the Mark." He studies Draco, his brows drawn together. "It can't be done, you realise."

Draco doesn't answer. He's frightened and fighting off the panic that's welling up in him at being so close to the uncle he despises, the uncle who had tormented him, threatened to bend him over, to take him for his own cruel pleasure. The uncle who'd killed his father. 

They sit silently for a moment, and Draco tries not to look away. Tries not to show his fear. He knows he hasn't managed when his uncle smiles, that thin, vicious curve of his lips that Draco knows all too well. "You've been looking for me." Rodolphus' voice is soft, and it sends a shiver of revulsion down Draco's spine. 

"Only to put you back in Azkaban." Even Draco can hear the faint quaver in his voice. He looks away, and his uncle chuckles. 

"As if you could, boy." Rodolphus leans forward in his seat. His dressing gown gapes open at the front; Draco can see his broad, muscular chest, the faint grey fuzz across his pale skin, the pink nub of a nipple. "As for what you saw in London, well." He takes another sip of the tea, his hands curled around the white pottery mug. "Seems I've learnt to project myself, haven't I?" His smile's sharp. "Excellent skill to have, I've discovered. Keeps me safer, tucked away in places like this whilst I'm sending a part of myself out and about."

That's a difficult magical process, Draco knows damned well. Only a few Unspeakables can manage it, and even then it exhausts them. And here's his uncle, looking bright as a button and bloody well-rested. More so than Draco. "Interesting party trick," Draco says, knowing it'll irk his uncle. Merlin but he's spent too much time around Harry, he thinks.

He's right. Rodolphus' face flushes; he slams his hand against the table. "Watch your tongue, boy."

Draco knows he can't push his uncle too far. Not if he wants to make it out of this unscathed. He falls silent, just looking at Rodolphus. Waiting. 

"You're family," Rodolphus says after a moment. "It's only right I give you a chance to join us. Your aunt, wretched cow that she is, insists." He lets his gaze slide down Draco's body. "She always did think highly of you. Thought you'd be a pretty little toy."

And that makes Draco's skin crawl. He refuses to look away. "My aunt's dead, you gormless shit."

"In a manner of speaking, yes." His uncle's smiling again. He rests his elbows on the table. "You asked why you're here. I'm offering you a chance to join me. To work with power you'll never experience again, Draco." His eyes are bright, shining with madness. "I've already learnt so much--"

"The grimoire," Draco says, the thrum of magic taking shape in his mind as though it had a consciousness of its own. "You've been using it."

Rodolphus raises an eyebrow. "The things I know now…" He trails off, leans further over the table. Draco can smell his sour breath. "The world will be ours."

"You killed my father." Draco gives Rodolphus an incredulous look. "You killed him and destroyed my mother's life, and you expect me to what? Join up with whatever mad plot you're percolating?" The fear's receding a bit, replaced with fury. "Has Azkaban addled your mind that much?"

"Don't be a fool." Rodolphus is on his feet now, moving around the table. "I would give you power--"

"For what?" Draco flinches as his uncle comes near him. "There's nothing you have that I want--"

"The Manor, or rather, the funds to keep it up." His uncle smiles, a sharp, feral flash of yellowed teeth, as Draco stills. He leans over Draco, the musky scent of his cologne wafting across the air between them. "I would give you the whole of your inheritance back, the monies your father invested with me. For you, I would make the Malfoy name respected again. Feared even."

Draco looks away. Doesn't let himself be tempted. He shakes his head. "You killed my father," he says again, and his grief swells up again, sharp and bitter in the back of his throat. 

There's silence for a long moment, then Rodolphus says, "That was a pity." When Draco glances over at him, his uncle seems almost regretful. "I didn't wish to, you realise. I rather liked your father at times. Lucius could be…" Rodolphus frowns, then sighs. "Amusing, in his own way." He hesitates, then adds, "Not to mention useful."

"Until he wasn't," Draco spits out, and his uncle raises a shoulder, lets it drop. 

"He was going to break," Rodolphus says, and his jaw tightens. "Tell the Ministry things best left unsaid, all because he was worried about you."

Draco's throat aches. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" His uncle studies him, a small, unpleasant smile curving his mouth, and all Draco can think about is dinners at the Manor with the Dark Lord sat in his father's seat at the head of the table, his aunt at the place his mother would have occupied, and Rodolphus beside her, his gaze flicking between Draco and his mother, that same expression on his face. Rodolphus Lestrange had always wanted to destroy Lucius Malfoy. Draco knows that, whatever his uncle might say. He'd wanted to punish Draco's father, to take his wife, his son, to use them both in whatever way he wanted. 

He'd never had the chance. Not really. Until now.

And Draco can tell the moment the madness shifts in his uncle, the moment Rodolphus sees Draco's fear. His uncle's smile widens, his eyes narrow. "Oh," Rodolphus says, and he trails a fingertip across Draco's cheek, and Draco's seventeen again, unable to breathe, his terror rising up in him. "Such a lovely boy you were," his uncle murmurs. "A pretty little morsel I'd have consumed. And now look at you. Bent and broken, with so little power that you can't even find your wand…" He snaps his fingers next to Draco's ear. There's a soft clatter on the table; Draco sees his wand roll across it. He tries to reach for it, but he can't move. He's held in place, and his uncle's fingers are stroking down his throat, over his collarbones. 

"Please," Draco hears himself say. "Please don't."

His uncle's laughter rings in his ears, and then Rodolphus' fingertips are pressing into Draco's throat, pushing his head back, his sharp nails digging into the soft flesh beneath Draco's jaw. "I would give you the world, boy," he whispers into Draco's ear, his lips brushing Draco's skin. "All the power you'd hope for, but you're too weak to take it, aren't you? To do what your blood calls out for you to do, to destroy this pathetically foolish Ministry and bring back our own glory the way His Lordship promised?"

Draco's still in his chair, and he can't breathe, can't shift, can't anything. His heart's pounding; he makes a soft noise when Rodolphus' thumb presses against his windpipe. 

"I could kill you here," his uncle muses. "Wouldn't even need magic. Just one push…" His hand tightens on Draco's throat. "But that wouldn't give me the information I want, would it?" And then his hand's gone, and Draco's gasping in lungfuls of air, the sound harsh and ugly in the quiet of the room. 

"Get in here," Rodolphus shouts, and Draco hears a door opening behind him. He can't turn, can't move, can't see the person walking towards him, their boots echoing against the floorboards. His uncle steps away. "Find out what he knows about the investigation," Rodolphus says, his voice scathing. "However you wish." He gives Draco an angry look. "He's an Occlumens. Break him."

And then there's a man moving alongside Draco, a brush of something against Draco's mind that's oddly familiar. 

_Eddie?_ Draco thinks, just as Eddie Durant steps in front of him, wand in his hand. 

Deep in Draco's mind he hears a familiar, soft Louisiana accent, rueful and unhappy. _Sorry, man. I've got to make this believable for your sake and mine._ Eddie raises his wand, takes a ragged breath. "Crucio."

The pain explodes in Draco's body, arching him from the chair with a shout. And yet he knows Eddie's not putting his full force into the Unforgivable, that Eddie's holding back. Still, it hurts, pain shuddering through his muscles as he slumps against the straight back of the chair, an angry fire burning across his skin. He's breathing hard. 

Eddie leans forward. "What do the Aurors know?" _Give me something,_ Eddie whispers in Draco's mind. _Nothing important, but anything he'll believe._

 _You'll have to Crucio me again,_ Draco thinks. _He knows I won't break that easily._ And then he shakes his head, looking up at Eddie. "Fuck you."

"Goddamn son of a bitch." Eddie lifts his wand again; Draco tries to brace himself for the pain. It doesn't help. His fingers scrabble at the edge of the seat, trying to hold on as he twists against the waves of agony. He wants to call out for Harry, to beg to be let go, but he doesn't. Instead he clenches his jaw, his teeth digging into his lip hard enough to draw blood that he only tastes as the pain leeches away from his body. It's metallic and salty against his tongue; he can feel a drop roll down his chin. 

And then his uncle is there, and the back of Rodolphus hand strikes Draco's face, turning his head, another swell of pain going through Draco as the cartilage in his nose bends, a snapping noise accompanying it. Draco cries out; the tears welling up in his eyes slip out even as he screws them closed. _Fuck,_ he thinks, and he feels a twist of sympathy from Eddie. 

"Answer the man, Draco," Rodolphus snarls, his spittle hitting Draco's cheek. "Before we deliver you to St Mungo's half-dead."

"Only half?" Draco asks, and his uncle's hand slams against his face again, nearly knocking him from the chair. 

"Hey," Eddie says, catching Draco before he falls. "Take a goddamn step back, man, and leave this to me. You're going to fuck him up so bad he can't speak." _And you,_ he whispers in Draco's mind, _stop being a little bitch._

Draco wants to laugh through the blood he spits out. His hair's come loose from the tie; locks fall across his cheek, sticking to the bloodied skin. _What the fuck are you doing here?_

 _Trying to fix something I fucked up._ Eddie shifts, pushing Rodolphus out of the way. "Go sit on the fucking sofa," he says to Draco's uncle, and Draco's surprised that Eddie has the bollocks to speak to Rodolphus like that. Eddie snorts. _Son, you ought to have grown up with Jasper Durant and his family. Your uncle's just a whiny jackass._

Frankly, Draco doesn't disagree. _Can I get out of here if I had my wand?_

 _No._ Eddie's voice sounds apologetic in Draco's mind. _This place is hidden away in a temporal wrinkle. It's a hell of a lot more complex than just Apparating away. Hold your breath. I'm going to hit you with something new._ And Draco finds himself upended in mid-air just before a rush of water hits his face, knocking the breath out of him, making him cough and sputter. He twists his body away, trying to avoid the spray, but he can't, and he's starting to inhale it when Eddie rights him again. "You ready to talk now?"

"Sod off," Draco says, but his voice is weaker. Eddie gives him a concerned look, and Draco tries to draw in an uneven breath. It hurts, more so than he wants to admit. 

And Eddie lifts his wand again. _Sorry._ Another Crucio wracks Draco's body, and this time he lands on the filthy floor, tears seeping down his cheeks, his body shaking, his fingers clawing at the stained floorboards. He breathes in the dust and mold, and it catches in the back of his throat, making him hack. He can taste blood again, and when he spits onto the floor, it's thick and red. 

Eddie crouches next to him, wraps Draco's hair around his fist, jerking Draco's head up. "Now," he says, and Draco recognises the command in his voice. 

"What the fuck do you want to know?" Draco's voice rasps against his throat. He looks up at Eddie, but it's his uncle who answers. 

"Antonin Dolohov," Rodolphus says from behind Draco. "What has he said so far?"

It takes Draco a moment before he says, "Nothing." And then his ribs explode in a riot of pain that makes Draco roll onto his side, gasping for breath. 

His uncle stands over him. "Draco," he says, his voice soft and almost gentle. "You know you'll have to do better than that."

Draco breathes out, his hand clenched to his side. He doesn't know what to say, what Harry won't kill him for letting slip. He drags his tongue over his split lip, smearing blood and spit across it. "He told us about the money, about Yaxley.” It's a dicey move, he thinks, but maybe it'll get something out of his uncle. Draco lifts his head. One of his eyes is swelling shut, and his vision is blurred, but he tries to catch sight of his uncle's expression, to see if he can glean anything useful from his reaction. “He said he'll tell us how to find it all. Croaker’s been torturing him.”

For a moment, there’s nothing, and Draco wonders if his uncle even cares about the offshore accounts and the link to the Old Man. And then a fireball bursts over his head, hot and wild, striking the kitchen wall, exploding into an inferno that shoots up to the ceiling. 

"Goddamn it," Eddie shouts, sending a jet of water towards the flames with a flick of his wand. "Are you trying to fucking kill us all, you dickhead?" He turns on Rodolphus. "If you don't keep hold of your fucking temper...Jesus. You're worse than my asshole grandfather."

Draco thinks his uncle's going to turn his wand on Eddie, but Rodolphus finally looks away, his mouth tight. "One day I'm going to kill you, you realise."

"Yeah, well, it's not going to be today," Eddie says. Draco thinks it's mostly bluster; he can feel Eddie's fear roiling through him. Eddie looks back at Draco. _Stop worrying. He needs me._

 _That's precisely why I'm worried._ Draco studies Eddie's scruffy face. He needs a good shave, and he looks like he hasn't slept for days. _What the hell does he want from you?_

Eddie's gaze slips away. Draco can feel Eddie's Occlumens fall into place. _Later._

And that's the best Draco's going to get, he realises as his uncle jerks him to his feet, slams him against the wall without even trying. Draco winces, pain shooting through his battered body. Rodolphus' pins Draco up with his hand around Draco's throat; his uncle's only inches from his face. "You'll find nothing, you little shit. Do you hear me?" Rodolphus' eyes are wild, furious, and Draco tries to pull at his uncle's hand as it tightens around Draco's windpipe. 

Draco's gasping for air and getting nothing, and only a raw, rough sound is coming from his throat when he tries to shout. Darkness starts to close in at the edges of his vision, and all Draco can think is that this is how it's going to end, with him lying dead in this shitty Death Eater bolthole. He thinks of Harry, still asleep at Grimmauld Place, and he wishes he'd woken him up, kissed him goodbye. 

Grim desolation seeps across Draco's skin, his body starts to go limp. And then something moves behind his uncle, and Rodolphus is jerked back, letting Draco fall to the floor again. For a moment, Draco thinks it must have been Eddie, but when he looks up there's a Dementor leaning over him. Draco shudders in fear, trying weakly to push himself back against the wall, desperate to get away from the empty depths of that dark hood. 

Deep inside the shadows of the tattered cloth, a face forms, pale and sharp, a vicious, haughty face Draco knows so well. One that's almost like his own, pointed and thin, the mouth a cruel, amused twist. 

"Aunt Bella," Draco whispers, horrified, and then the darkness takes him, curling around him until he's lost in its depths.

***

"Oi." A hand shakes Draco's shoulder, sending waves of pain rolling through him. "Oi! Get off my front step, you bloody pissed wanker."

Draco's eyes flutter open, or as open as one will go before the pain spikes even more. It takes a moment for the world to settle around him from a blur of colours and shapes into a sharper focus, at least in monocular vision. He blinks, wincing again, and a wrinkled face is frowning down at him. Draco swallows, then says, in a croaky voice, "Tom?"

The proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron's giving him a suspicious look. "Yeah?"

For a moment, Draco closes his eyes. Feels the throb of his whole body. He didn't imagine any of this, he tells himself. It actually happened. When he opens his eyes again, Tom's face is a bit more concerned.

"You're not mad, are you?" Tom asks, and Draco laughs, a rough, bitter sound that catches as soon as he starts. Maybe he is mad. He lets Tom help him to his feet. "Malfoy, right?" Tom's frowning at him. "Did you get jumped by the youths?" From the way Tom says it, Draco thinks that he's hoping that might have actually happened. 

Draco shakes his head; Tom looks disappointed. Draco checks his pockets. His wand's still gone. Instead there's a piece of paper with nothing but a string of numbers on it, followed by a scrawled _E_. Eddie, Draco thinks, and he knows he's right. He frowns down at it, then folds it back up, tucks it into his pocket again. 

"May I use your Floo?" Draco asks Tom. He needs to go home, he thinks. Needs to feel Harry near him, to tell Harry what just happened. He doesn't know why his uncle let him go, why he's still here, still alive. And then he thinks about his aunt's face, swallowed up by that Dementor's hood, and a chill goes through him. She saved him, he realises. She'd been the one to pull his uncle away. His stomach twists at that. He doesn't know what to think. None of this makes sense. He presses a hand to his aching head. 

Tom eyes him uneasily, then shrugs. "It's public," he says after a moment, and he leads Draco into the Leaky. He's obviously just opened up. No one's there, and the embers in the hearth are smouldering faintly from the day before, waiting to be stoked. Tom looks over at Draco as he closes the door behind them. "Sure you don't need St Mungo's?"

"No." Draco touches his aching throat. He wonders how bruised it is; when he glances at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he understands Tom's worry. There are purple finger marks beneath his jaw, down his neck. His nose is tilted at an awkward angle, his face is battered and bruised, his lip scabbed over, his left eye nearly swollen shut. Blood's caked in his hair, dried on his skin and his shirt. He looks like bloody hell. He glances at Tom. "Thanks, though."

"Your life." Tom just shrugs as Draco limps over to the Floo, dips into the pot of silver powder. 

Draco throws some into the Floo, says "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," as quietly as he can. He still thinks Tom might have overheard, but Tom just looks away as the flames leap up. Draco doesn't give a damn any more. He needs to see Harry. 

He takes a deep breath, every part of his body aching, a sharp stabbing pain going through his side, and he steps into the Floo, letting it whirl him away.

***

Althea watches as Granger and Parkinson comb through the section of Charing Cross Road just outside of the Leaky. Granger's Unspeakables have put up a perimeter. To Muggles it looks as if the road's been blocked off for repair work; magical folk can see the Ministry paperwork posted to keep them from walking through. Faces appear from time to time at the Leaky's windows, peering out at them, more now that the lunch crowd is starting to trickle in.

She scrubs her palms over her face, tries to hide a yawn. Althea hadn't slept well last night; really she hasn't for days now. Part of it's the anniversary of her mother's death last week. She knows that. It's never been easy, especially not when her worry for her father's sky-high. Althea's been spending a good portion of her free time in Bristol, visiting Mitchell. He's told her she doesn't have to, but she knows she does. He's all she has left now, and maybe some of it's for her more than anything else. She misses her dad, and work's kept her away from him more than she'd like. 

"Oi, Whitaker." Granger motions Althea over. She's looking up at a gargoyle on the front of the Leaky, high up at the cornice. Althea strides over, her thick braid striking the back of her shoulders when she tilts her head back to look. 

"Is that it?" Althea glances over at Parkinson, who looks bloody furious and has since Granger called them up on this trek. It'd just taken Granger saying Malfoy'd been hurt for Parkinson to fly into high gear. Zabini'd stayed behind to help Durant go after Dolohov, to see if he might know anything about these Death Eater boltholes Malfoy'd discovered, and Granger said the guv was with Malfoy at St Mungo's, insisting he be checked out by Healers. That'll probably nark Malfoy right off, Althea thinks. She fucking would be if it were her. 

Parkinson's dark hair is twisted up in a messy knot, her concession to the day's heat, along with the sleeveless plum shirt she's wearing tucked into her black pleated skirt. Althea feels a bit dull and boring in her Breton striped shirt and dark blue trousers. Parkinson looks over at her. "It's as Draco described it," she says, "and if you watch it carefully enough, you can see it turn, if only a bit. Keep your eye on it, and I'll show you." She steps to one side, then forward a bit, and Althea thinks she can see the gargoyle's head follow, ever so slightly. Parkinson turns back to her and Granger. "I'm fairly certain it'd be more obvious if it'd been programmed to look for me."

"How would it?" Althea asks. "Magical signature? Lestrange would have to have a record of that for Malfoy--"

"Or his Mark," Granger says. Her arms are folded across her chest. Her hair's loose around her face today, the tight curls moving in the faint breeze that sweeps down the street. There's a sheen of sweat on her temples already; it's supposed to hit thirty by the afternoon. Althea thinks it might already be heading there. Granger frowns. "Harry's asked if we can block it."

"Can you?" Parkinson looks over at Granger, who shakes her head. 

"I've got a team working on the magic behind the Mark already," Granger says. "They think it has some elements of the Fidelius Charm in it, but it's tangled up with some nasty magic that they haven't been able to isolate yet. I had them take readings of Malfoy's forearm the moment he transferred to us, just in case something like this happened."

For a moment, Althea thinks Parkinson's going to object, but she just looks away, back up at the gargoyle. "Well, that's the one," Parkinson says, almost to herself. "I just wish I could get a closer look at it." 

"Robson," Granger calls out to one of the Unspeakables, a tall sandy-blond man with narrow shoulders and an aquiline nose. He leaves the team he's been speaking with and walks over. 

"Yeah, boss?" The smile he gives Granger is warm, though it fades when his gaze slides to her and then to Parkinson. There's tension between the Unspeakables and Aurors working on this. It doesn't surprise Althea. All of them are feeling a bit territorial lately. He glances back the team. "We've most of the magical signatures collected along the street."

Granger nods, then points up to the gargoyle. "Get me that statue up there. The one with the wide wings. I want to see it up close."

"Sure thing." Robson turns back to the Unspeakables. "Everrett! Awojobi! Get your arses over here and help me out." 

It only takes five minutes to leverage the gargoyle out of its place beneath the cornice and lower it to the street, the three Unspeakables sweating by the end of it, their wand arms trembling as the gargoyle thuds softly against the pavement. Robson transfigures a few of the bricks into a makeshift gargoyle to take its place. It's not perfect, but it'll fool most people's eye, Althea thinks. 

"Careful," Granger says as Parkinson squats beside the stone beast, and Parkinson gives her an irritated glare.

"I'm quite certain I'm not a complete idiot, Granger," Parkinson snaps, and Althea hides a faint smile. Granger just rolls her eyes. 

They watch as Parkinson casts recording charms on it, frowning at the symbols that appear in the air above the gargoyle before fading away. She's silent a moment, then she sighs. "There's definitely a surveillance charm on the stone," she says. "Along with a few others that I'll need time to isolate. But I can tell you it's not a solitary; this charm's tapped into a system of some sort."

"Can you break into it?" Granger asks. 

Parkinson looks back at the gargoyle, twists her wand through her fingers the way she does when she's deep in contemplation. "Eventually," she says. "But it won't be easy. There's at least a confabulation charm on this thing, as well as other misdirection and secrecy spells. It'll be like peeling an onion. I'm just going to find another layer underneath, I think."

Granger sighs. "All right. We'll pack it up and put it in your lab for you. But I want a report as soon as you give one to Harry."

"Of course," Parkinson says, but there's a gleam in her eyes that makes Althea think that the guv will have his write-up long before one makes its way to Granger's desk. Judging from Granger's snort, she's realised this as well. 

"Wrap it up, Robson," Granger says. "But don't touch the bloody thing." 

Robson nods, and he moves closer just as Parkinson starts to stand. They collide and Parkinson flails out with her wand hand, the supple willow striking the stone brow of the gargoyle just as Granger and Althea both reach for her. The gargoyle's eyes glow green.

"Fuck--" Parkinson says, and then all four of them are drawn into a swirling vortex of darkness, the street seeping away from around them until they land with a series of bumps and thuds in a silent, shadowed flat. 

Althea already has her wand in her hand as she rises into a crouch. Parkinson's knelt beside her, her hand on her ankle. _Twisted,_ she mouths to Althea, and Althea nods, glancing over Parkinson's head to Granger and Robson. Granger jerks her chin to the two doors off the sitting room, points to Althea, and then one, before turning to Robson and motioning him to the other. Quietly Robson and Althea rise to their feet, as Granger shifts towards Parkinson, blocking her with her wand. 

The floorboards creak beneath Althea's boots, and she hesitates, her heart pounding. Robson looks over at her, nods encouragingly. She takes another step, lighter this time, and she makes her way to the door, glancing at Robson, waiting for his signal to push it open. He stops beside his own door, his hand on the knob. He holds up one finger, then two, then a third, just as his hand wrenches the door open. 

Althea's door slams against the wall, an echo of Robson's. Her wand's at the ready, and she swings into the room, in defensive stance. It's empty, not even a sheet on the bed. The mattress sags in the middle, the lace curtains at the windows are yellowed and tattered in places. 

"Lumos," Althea says, and a faint light fills the room, pushing the shadows back. She casts a charm to make certain it's empty. Nothing shows up, not even under the bed. She moves back into the main room. "All clear."

"Same." Robson steps out of the second bedroom. "Also the loo."

Granger's already casting a Lumos on the sitting room. "Kitchen's empty as well. No one's here."

"They were." Parkinson's limping to the table. "And they want us to know." She picks up the wand that's lying in the centre of it. Althea recognises it. 

"Malfoy's," Althea says, and Parkinson nods. 

Granger walks over to look out the window. "Malfoy said this was hidden away in a temporal charm." She frowns down at the street. "That's a Manchester bus coming around the corner." She turns and looks at them. "Narrows down the neighbourhood a bit. Robson, come over here and record this for me."

"If we're in a temporal loop," Robson says, "I won't be able to send them back to the office until we're out."

"That's fine." Granger moves out of the way, lets him take her place at the window. He lifts his wand, murmurs a spell, and there's a flash of light from his wand tip, almost as if he's just taken a photograph. 

Althea kneels in front of Parkinson. "Sit your damn arse down," she says a bit gruffly, but Parkinson does, landing in one of the rickety chairs with a soft huff. Her fingers are still curled around Malfoy's wand as well as her own, and she doesn't object when Althea lifts her foot, although she winces when Althea turns it to one side. "You idiot," Althea says, not looking up at Parkinson. "I keep telling you these shoes aren't made for fieldwork." She draws off one of Parkinson's kitten heels, her thumb stroking lightly along Parkinson's swollen ankle. 

"But they look bloody fantastic," Parkinson says, then she hisses when Althea presses her thumb into the back of her ankle bone. "Fucking hell--"

Her feet are soft and small, the toes painted a bright, vibrant red. "Your fault, Parkinson," Althea says, and she glances up, her wand hovering above Parkinson's foot. "Hold on to the table. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker."

Parkinson shouts at Althea's Episkey, her foot jerking up as the ankle cracks back into place. "Circe, I hate you," she breathes out afterwards, and her face looks pale.

Althea just pats Parkinson's ankle, then stands, a bit awkwardly. "You'll be glad of it later." She glances over at Granger, who's walking around the room, her wand sweeping into the corners. "What are you looking for?"

Granger glances back over her shoulder. "Anything that will tie this rathole back to Lestrange."

"Shouldn't you be trying to figure out how to get us out of a temporal loop?" Althea asks, her irritation surging. They already know Lestrange was here. Malfoy'd said so, and they'd found Malfoy's bloody wand, so that's fucking good enough for her. 

"Temporal loops are bog-standard Unspeakable work," Granger says, turning back to her examination of the flat. She steps into the kitchen. There's an empty mug in the sink, washed clean. Granger picks it up. "Robson can break that in five minutes." She glances up at Althea. "If not less. This, on the other hand…" She lifts the mug, casts a charm on it. And Rodolphus Lestrange's face rises out of the rim, looking half-mad and furious. "Now we have him."

Althea frowns. "We already knew that."

"And now we can prove it," Granger says. "Which gives me reason to ask Saul for the resources to tear this bloody place apart if we need to." 

"She has a point," Parkinson says from the table, "although she's put her bloody hands on the mug, so I'll have to run an exclusion on her in the lab."

Granger walks back out, sets the mug down on the table beside Parkinson. "I'll be in the system, and I didn't drink from it."

Parkinson just scowls at her. "Still." She casts a charm on the mug, wrapping it in a protective spell. "Bloody idiots, not following proper forensic procedure."

"Fallowfield," Robson says from the window, and when they turn to look at him, he shrugs. "Reckon that's where we are. I can track the proper street down when we get back to London, but I've seen enough so far to convince me. My cousin Andy's a Squib who boarded at the uni here in Mancs, so I've been around this place a fair bit back in the day. Parties and what not."

"That's somewhat terrifying," Granger says. "The idea of you partying." 

Robson just gives her a wide grin. "Should have seen me pissed on peppermint schnapps at Andy's Christmas party that year. His mates thought I was wicked, what with all the magic tricks I did."

"I really don't need to know that," Granger says, but she's smiling as she shakes her head. It's odd, Althea thinks, to see Granger with her Unspeakables, to watch them laughing together, working with each other. Granger doesn't seem quite as unapproachable, really. Althea wonders what it's like to work with her, wonders if it's like being under the guv's command, fair but demanding. Granger turns to Althea. "Help me scour through this place, see what we can get. If we're lucky, Lestrange will have been sloppy cleaning up, and we'll find something that helps us track the bastard down."

Althea's not entirely certain that's likely, but she nods, looks over at Parkinson. "Your ankle better?"

Parkinson pushes herself to her feet, only wincing slightly. "I can walk," she says, and she slides her foot into her shoe again. Her limp's far less pronounced now. "Let's do what we can to find this twat." She looks down at her scuffed shoe. "It's bad enough he pummelled my best friend; now my bloody shoe's bollocksed, and these were my favourite pair." The look on her face is mutinous. Althea suspects Rodolphus Lestrange's about to pay. 

Frankly, she thinks, her wand out as she follows Granger's direction, it's bloody fucking time.

***

It's gone half one by the time Harry makes it back to his office with Draco in tow. They'd waited longer than Harry'd expected in the Auror section of St Mungo's on the second floor before Irskine had come in to see Draco. The Healer had almost walked back out the door when he'd seen who it was waiting for him, but Harry'd been ready to chase him and it must've bloody well shown on his face given the way Irskine had paused, then stalked over to Draco, a tightly polite smile curving his mouth.

If he's honest, Harry's still not quite recovered from the shock of seeing Draco stagger out of the Floo in the library this morning, beaten and bruised and bleeding. Harry'd already been half-working on a tantrum after a disapproving Kreacher'd informed him that Master Draco had decided to, as he put it, flee to work on foot--running's still a novel idea to the aged house elf--having not eaten anything but a flapjack--another definite crime in Kreacher's ever-expanding lexicon of their appropriate meals these days. If they're not careful, Harry thinks grimly, Kreacher's going to start insisting on formal dinner on a regular basis. Still, Harry'd been in the library, gathering his satchel together for work, when Draco had come through, falling onto the floor before Harry could catch him. 

Harry's world had stopped for that moment. All he'd been able to see was the blood and Draco's limp body, and he'd been certain he'd lost him. Harry'd landed on his knees, crawled over to Draco as he shouted for Kreacher, and if Harry stops to think about it, he still shakes with the horror of the possibility of what might have happened this morning, how Draco might not have come home to him. He can't bear that thought, can't imagine what he might have done if Draco hadn't looked up at him, hadn't breathed out, hadn't croaked out his uncle's name. 

And now Harry wants to find Rodolphus Lestrange, wants to slam his fist against the bastard's face, wants to beat him within an inch of his sodding life. Not even standing in front of bloody Voldemort has Harry ever felt this intense of a rage before. Draco's goddamned _his_ , and no one-- _no one_ \--is going to touch him.

"Harry," Draco says sharply, and Harry glances down at his desk. Parchment's scattered across it, and the top sheet of a report that he'd thrown in his inbox last night is now smouldering along the edges. Harry grabs it, slapping it against the corner of the desk until the flame goes out. Draco just scowls at him, and Harry sighs. 

"Yes," Harry says before Draco can ask. "I was thinking of your uncle."

Draco shakes his head, his arms folded across his chest. "You need to stop. I'm fine, and you've already nearly set the fire alarms off in St Mungo's twice today." He looks over at Harry, and his still-bruised face softens. "I know you're angry."

"I'll kill him," Harry says softly, and he means it. He knows he does. "If I find him--" He looks away, his fists clenched together, his knuckles cracking as he presses on them.

"Stop." Draco's hand covers Harry's. "Marchbanks has already seen you nearly burn the tea shop down--"

Harry gives him a baleful look. "It was a paper cup, you tosser." Still, the feel of Draco's hand on his calms Harry, makes the rage slip down a notch to something more manageable.

Draco shrugs. "It could have been worse." He drops his hand, frowning at Harry. "You have to watch your temper."

The thing is, Harry knows Draco's right. He'd seen the way Irskine looked at him when Harry's fury had set the edges of Draco's medical file smoking, as if Harry might be more dangerous than the former Death Eater sat in front of him. He sighs again and rubs his hands over his face, his fingers sliding beneath his glasses to press against his eyelids. He breathes out the way Freddie's taught him to do when he feels out of control, counting to four as he inhales, holding it, then exhaling for another four beats. It helps, a little at least. He slides his hands down his cheeks, pushes them to the back of his neck as he watches Draco move further into his office. Harry's missed having him here, so fucking badly. It hasn't even been a full month that Draco's been gone from Seven-Four-Alpha, but Christ, Harry wishes he could stay. Harry feels calmer with Draco beside him. 

Draco's fingers trail across the edge of Harry's desk."I see your paperwork skills are still minimal." Draco's snide remark is oddly soothing to Harry's nerves, almost normal in fact. It brings him back to this little room and the smell of the Ministerial cleaning crew's disinfectant charms and furniture polish. 

Harry shrugs, looking at the pile of file jackets and reports that has accumulated on his battered wooden desk. "It's like the paper multiplies the minute I turn my back. I can't win for losing." He's not telling Draco that many of those file jackets concern his father, and, under the guise of straightening up, Harry slides some of the more obvious ones labelled _Malfoy, Lucius_ at the bottom of a large pile and rumples the ones on top a bit. "Sometimes Whitaker gets irritated and just does it for me."

"You'll have to stop pulling so many cold cases." Draco sits down in the worn wooden chair with a huff, and when Harry turns, he's holding his ribs. His eye's still swollen a bit; Irskine'd given Draco a salve to use over the course of the day, telling him it should go down by evening. Frankly, that's not bloody soon enough for Harry. He hates the purpling bruises on Draco's cheek, the others that circle Draco's eye. His boyfriend looks as if he's done a few rounds in a paddock with an angry Hippogriff, Harry thinks, and another surge of rage wells up in him, setting alight another edge of a file jacket. 

Draco leans over and slaps his hand against it, his scowl deepening. "Circe's tits, Harry."

"Sorry." Harry drops down into his own chair. He leans forward, his elbows on the desk. "I'm still bloody angry, I reckon." His mouth thins. "And that arsewipe didn't need to Crucio you that much." That's a discussion he's going to have the next time Harry sees Eddie fucking Durant, that much is for bloody certain.

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been," Draco says, but Harry can tell he's hurting still. Badly. The sodding fool won't take the pain potions Irskine had given him, and now Harry's starting recognise Draco's own annoyance with him a few weeks past. Draco winces as he shifts in his chair. He waves a hand at Harry's stack of file jackets. "Anyway, I don't know that sorting through the paperwork is going to help us find anything on Uncle Roddy." His breath's a little shaky, and he's gritting his teeth. 

"All right there?" Harry's anxiety spikes. He'd hoped St Mungo's might hold Draco for observation, but Irskine had done a full scan and said that the damage was mainly cosmetic. Right. If the way Draco looks is bloody cosmetic damage, Harry doesn't want to see what real damage looks like to an experienced Healer like Irskine. Harry knows his concern irritates Draco no end--Draco's told him more than once to stop hovering--but he can't seem to stop reacting.

"Oh, I'm just bleeding out. Don't worry about me," Draco says, a pissy little look on his face that actually makes Harry relax a little. He'd be more worried if Draco wasn't irked right now. Draco settles back in his chair. He's already been complaining about his clothes; Harry'd refused to let him put on a tie, and Irskine had agreed. Comfortable clothes only for the day, which meant Draco's walking around in a pair of light, grey wool trousers and a white dress shirt, open at the collar. He'd told Harry he looked a right tit; Harry thinks he looks bloody gorgeous in anything he puts on. Even battered and bruised like this. Draco presses his hand to his side again; Harry's worry flares a bit. Draco breathes out, his face creasing with the pain. "Although Eddie Durant is a surprisingly strong spellcaster--he wasn't using his full strength, and those Crucios hurt like a bastard. Thank Merlin he's on our side."

"We're certain of that?" Harry asks, and it surprises him when Draco's brows draw together. He would have thought Draco'd be a bit less trusting of Jake's brother, all things considered. 

"Don't be a prat," Draco says, and he's watching Harry through narrowed eyes. "You don't really think Eddie Durant of all people would be helping my uncle do whatever it is he's up to."

Harry hesitates, then says, "I suppose not." He glances over at Draco. "Although I'd like to know exactly what he wanted with you. Your uncle, I mean."

Draco's silent for a long moment, then he huffs a soft sigh. There are things Draco's not telling him, Harry thinks, but he knows better than to push too hard. He's learnt that he needs to let Draco come to him, let Draco have the space he needs, as hard as that might be. Harry hates it right now, if he's honest. 

"I don't know," Draco says finally. "It's…" He frowns. "He wanted to know what we knew, but it's also almost as if he wanted me to join him." He catches his lip between his teeth, then winces. It's not split any longer--Irskine's Episkey had taken care of that, along with Draco's broken nose--but it's still tender, Harry knows from his own experiences. "It was a family thing, I think, but…" Draco trails off, looks away. "The man's off his bloody nut, Harry. He was always a bit mental--you'd have to be, I think, to have lived with Aunt Bella--but he's worse than he was. Azkaban ruined his mind."

"So he went after you?" Harry doesn't quite buy it. There's something they're missing. He doesn't know what, though. Maybe Draco's keeping it back, maybe Draco doesn't know. 

Draco rolls his shoulders, winces again. Harry feels an ache of solidarity in his own shoulder, the one that's only just healed. It's still stiff at times, but he hasn't bothered mentioning it to Draco. It'd only worry him, Harry thinks, and it's not that bad. Not really.

They're quiet for a moment, the two of them, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock in the corner of the room. The others will be back soon, Harry thinks. Whitaker and Parkinson are finishing up with Hermione in Charing Cross, and Zabini's down in the Department of Mysteries with Jake, grilling Dolohov again. He's asked them all to meet back up here once they've grabbed a bite in the commissary. It's time for them to track down this sodding fuckwit for the last time. 

Draco looks away, chews on his thumbnail. Harry knows he must be nervous; Draco never ruins a manicure unless he's upset about something. It surprises Harry that he knows this now, that he can almost tell what Draco's thinking at moments like this. Still, he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to calm Draco, how to make him feel less uncertain, less panicked about all of this.

Harry finds he's toying with a quill in his hand, swishing it back and forth between his fingers thoughtlessly. He wants to be out pounding the pavement, finding Lestrange and Eddie, doing something. He feels helpless and out of control, and has since Draco stumbled back through the Floo. If Draco can be attacked on his morning run, they're back to lockdown in Grimmauld, Harry thinks wildly, the way they had been when Dolohov was on the loose in London, when they'd been so certain he'd come after Draco just a few months ago. Harry tries to breathe, tries to calm his heart rate.

It doesn't work. He just feels more anxious than he had a moment before.

"Put that poor quill down before you destroy it," Draco says. He huffs. "I can hear your mind spinning from over here." He holds his ribs on his right side again, his breath catching. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and then they're open again, wide and filled with pain. "Fuck," he mumbles. "The Skele-gro is making my bones throb. I swear he gave me the extra-strength potion." He slumps in the chair; his head falls against the back, his hair loose and rumpled. "I bloody hate the extra-strength one." 

Harry stands up, walks around the corner of the desk to Draco, who scowls up at him. "Don't be a wanker, Potter," Draco says, but the words haven't any bite.

"I'll try." Harry brushes Draco's hair out of his face, leaning down to ghost a kiss on his forehead. "I'm so glad you're all right," he says uselessly, trying to catch Draco's eye. He feels so bloody awkward, so sodding inept. His heart stutters in his chest. Draco looks so broken, so hurt, and Harry would have done anything to stop that, to keep him safe. 

He still will. 

Draco rubs his hands over his face, frowning into the corner of the room as he lowers them. "Harry, don't." 

Harry kneels in front Draco's chair, sliding his arms around Draco for a moment. He presses his chin against Draco's thigh, feeling the warmth of Draco's leg through the thin wool of his trousers. "I don't know what I would do if anything happened to you," he mumbles, looking up at Draco.

"Oh, you prat," Draco says softly, but his hand settles on Harry's head, his fingers carding through Harry's hair. "I'm still here." 

But he might not have been. Harry wants to grip Draco's hips, to pull him closer, to crawl up in the bloody chair and wrap himself around Draco, telling himself that he can keep Draco safe. That he has to because no one else fucking will. 

Draco would be furious with him though. Harry knows that. He tries to fight away the urge, tries to breathe out, to remind himself that Draco's here with him, that nothing awful happened, even though it had. It's just when Harry closes his eyes, all he can see is Draco's limp body sprawled across the floor of the library, and all Harry can remember is that feeling that welled up in him, that sense that he'd lost the one thing he treasured most, that someone else he loved had left him, that he'd been left alone once more. 

He presses his face into Draco's leg; his glasses bite uncomfortably into his cheek, and he pulls them off, folds them, tucks them beside Draco's thigh. He exhales, a long slow breath, and a hot wetness slips from his closed eyes, catching on the angle of his nose, the folds of Draco's trousers. A raw despair fills him, and Harry doesn't know how to fight it back any longer. His shoulders shake, and when he whispers, "I'm sorry," his voice is rough and hoarse. "I just--" He can't finish the sentence, doesn't even know what he might say. 

"Harry," Draco whispers, and his touch is light on Harry's face. When Harry looks up, his gaze blurred and damp, Draco leans forward, kisses Harry's mouth, soft and warm. "I came back."

"But if you hadn't--" Harry breaks off, looks away. The words hang between them, heavy and solid, and Harry doesn't know what to do, how to make this feel better. He doesn't know if he wants to, even. It's a reminder that neither of them are safe, that the world outside of their Grimmauld Place bubble could intrude at any moment. Harry wants to run back to the house, to lock them both away in it together, to keep the dangers of their lives at bay. 

He knows that's impossible. He doesn't bloody care. 

Draco's fingers skim over Harry's cheek, over his jaw. "You can't save everyone, Harry Potter," he says, his voice soft, barely a whisper. 

"I only want to save you," Harry says, and Draco looks away, his face uncertain. 

"Don't promise something you can't guarantee." Draco sounds distant, unhappy, and Harry doesn't know what he's done wrong, what Draco doesn't understand. 

_I love you,_ Harry wants to say. _I need you._ Instead, Harry catches Draco's hand, holds it tightly. Draco doesn't pull back. His fingers curl around Harry's, warm and careful, his thumb sweeping over Harry's knuckles.

The world around them is spinning out of their control, Harry realises, and that frightens him more than he wants to admit, even to himself. 

Harry looks up at Draco, at his pale face, his closed eyes. _Don't go away,_ he thinks about saying. He doesn't. He glances away, his stomach twisting, a feeling of dread settling over him. There's nothing he can do to stop this, he thinks. Not if he can't even protect Draco outside of their house. A curl of smoke starts to drift from the bin beneath Harry's desk; he tries to breathe out, to stop it before Draco smells it. Harry exhales, does everything he can to calm himself. The smoke dissipates, and relief washes over Harry. It doesn't linger. 

They sit in silence, both of them lost in their own thoughts, their own worries.

Draco's never felt further away.

***

Jake hands the wizard at the tea trolley a few Sickles, getting two cups of tea and a sausage roll for himself, a pumpkin pasty for Blaise. He hands over the steaming paper cup and napkin-wrapped pastry, marvelling that Blaise can eat something so wintry in what the Brits consider a summer heat wave. Everyone's been bitching about how hot it is. Jake thinks it'll take another fifteen degrees or so--Fahrenheit, at least--and about double the humidity until he finds it difficult to manage; hell, this is practically fall weather for Louisiana. He remembers summers working in the backyard garden with his father and Eddie, outside with minimal sun protection and the barest of cooling charms drifting over their bare skin as they dug out roots and planted things like mandrake and Devil's Snare to dry out later in the fall on the back porch. His father'd thought it was beneficial to toughen the boys up. Jake remembers passing out once or twice from heatstroke and getting so damn dehydrated he could barely swallow. His mother had given him an ice cold Coke and refused to speak to his dad for a week. Then again, that was always happening when he was little, accompanied by the make-up between Jasper and Élodie that left little to the imagination in their small house. Sometimes Jake thinks it's no wonder he and Eddie are both fucked up. Their parents hadn't left them any goddamn choice in the end.

Blaise blows on the cup of tea, then looks over at Jake. "What an absolute fucker."

He's talking about Dolohov, Jake thinks, but, really, it works for Jasper Durant as well. Their interview with Antonin had not gone well, to say the least. Despite how hard they'd tried, they'd barely been able to get anything new out of him. With the news that Lestrange was back in London and prowling after him, Dolohov'd screwed up tighter than bull's ass in fly time. 

Jake nods at Blaise, giving him a wry smile. They're still dancing around each other, a little bit awkward together when they're not actively engaged in work. "He's a charmer. He's lucky to be in the Ministry--Croaker even seems to be feeding him again." 

Not that that's an improvement, really. In Jake's opinion, Croaker's switched from starving Dolohov to covert water interrogation spells. Jake can recognise the signs from his time in the Hit Wizards. He doesn't want to alarm Blaise, doesn't think it'll do any good. But it's unsettling nonetheless. It also means Dolohov is less and less responsive to ordinary questioning, which, to be honest, is fucking them in the ass, Jake thinks. The more Croaker does shit interrogations behind everyone's back, the more he's losing the battle for them all, and today was almost fucking useless, even after three goddamned hours of intensive interrogation. They'd found out nothing really about the boltholes, other than Dolohov knew they existed--evidently they were only known to a small group of trusted Death Eaters to use only when absolutely necessary-- and there were more than a few of them scattered around the UK. Where, however, Dolohov wasn't about to share. He'd just sat there, watching them with that fucking scowl of his that Jake wants to punch off his goddamn face. 

"I hear what you're withholding, you know," Blaise says conversationally, sipping at his tea and not looking at Jake. "You're broadcasting it pretty clearly."

This startles Jake and he jerks, spilling his tea in the process. "Fuck it." 

As quick as thinking, Blaise shoots two spells over, a drying spell for his hand and a cleaning spell for his trousers. Jake's always admired Blaise's speed--he knows what an astounding dueller Blaise is, and fuck but it gets him a bit hard watching Blaise's competence here in the Ministry hallway when they're about to go in for team meeting. Jake wills his prick to flag, with little success. 

_You're not half-hot yourself, Durant. Pity about the tea though._ Blaise's mouth quirks up at one corner; his gaze slips down to the damp patch on Jake's thigh.

Jake suddenly has an image in his head of Blaise nosing at his trousers, sucking at the wet spot, his cheek near Jake's crotch. Jake's prick surges in his trousers. In response to the teasing, Jake sends back an image of himself with an ice cube, drawing it leisurely down Blaise's spine and licking the melted water from his skin. Blaise shudders next to him.

"Arsehole," Blaise says. 

"You're the one who wants to play in the big leagues." Jake still doesn't understand this connection between them. He knows it has something to do with his Legilimency and Blaise's Veela blood, but to be honest, he doesn't want to look any deeper. Not when Blaise has made it fucking clear that all he wants is a good tumble now and then, and that's all. Jake's going to watch himself from now on. He knows from experience how even the slightest bit of Veela blood can get under his skin, drive him a bit wild. Moira'd damn near broken his heart in high school. He's not going to let Blaise Zabini do the same now. Not after Harry's already flayed him raw this year. 

And there's another bit of awkward, isn't there? Jake's not happy about working with Harry again, but what's he to do about it? They have to find Lestrange, and if Hermione wants him on her team, Jake's not going to say no. She knows that, and he's pretty fucking certain she's using it against him in her own charming way.

"We should go in." Jake swallows the rest of the tea. He knows Blaise is watching his throat, and, whether or not Jake wants to admit it, he's pleased. He wants Blaise to notice him, and that's goddamn pathetic, he thinks with a frown. Still, something about this morning's interrogation had been almost easy between them, despite the seriousness of the situation. Jake likes working with Blaise, and it'd been good to be doing something together instead of trying to talk about whatever it was they are or aren't. And fuck if Jake knows. He hadn't wanted to leave Blaise's bed on Saturday night. He'd wanted to stay with him, wrapped around Blaise's body the rest of the fucking weekend, maybe even into Monday morning, the way they had back in New York, but Jake'd also recognised that he was going to have to give Blaise some space. At least until Jake knows what he wants himself from Blaise, and the longer this goes on between them, the less certain Jake is about what that might be. With a sigh, he tosses the paper cup in the trash, and looks over at Blaise. "Ready?"

Blaise shrugs, his mouth still full of pumpkin pasty. Jake's never quite got over the Brits' fascination with pumpkin. It's Thanksgiving and Christmas for Jake, the scent of nutmeg and allspice and cloves filling his mama's kitchen as she baked. He hasn't really been able to eat it since she died; it reminds him too much of her to begin with, and really, nobody's as good at pumpkin pies as Élodie Durant had been. And he feels that emptiness again, that loss of his mother that's eased off over the years but that sometimes feels as sharp and as painful as the day she went. He clears his throat, looks away, hoping Blaise hadn't had a wave of that particular emotion. Jake'd rather keep that private. 

They walk into the incident room, Jake holding the door and getting the chance to watch Blaise's ass. It's a pity the bastard's so fucking attractive, Jake thinks, and he remembers sliding into that three nights past, remembers the way Blaise had taken his cock, his whole body trembling as he'd sank down further until Jake was buried balls deep in him. Fuck. Jake draws in a ragged breath, shakes his head. Time for business and acting like they're in public again. 

Especially in front of Harry.

Speaking of, the door to Harry's office is closed, and Blaise has a light frown on his face. "Well, the guv and Draco are here," he says mildly, a wrinkle between his eyebrows as he drops into one of the chairs at the desks. Piles of file jackets are stacked to one side of it, the detritus of police work. 

Jake knows this should bother him, that Harry and Malfoy could be making out or fucking behind that door, and it surprises him how little he cares when a month or two ago it would have made him goddamn furious. He cocks his head to one side, listening. There are voices, steady but quiet, which means they're at least having a conversation. "Should we knock?"

Blaise snorts, leaning back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "It's your virgin eyeballs, if anything's going on. Not mine."

Snorting, Jake stands up, wipes his hands on his trousers. He's made it halfway to Harry's office when the door opens, and Malfoy walks out, looking for all the world like a miffed kitten. His face is a bit bloodless, Jake thinks, and his mouth is turned down at the corners, but he's healthy enough considering. 

Jake spreads his hands. "Hi, Malfoy. I was just coming to let you know we were here."

"Durant." Malfoy nods sharply, throwing himself into a seat near Blaise.

Harry comes out, and Jake's head hurts at the waves of suppressed fury and fear rolling off of him. Jake mutters a quick shielding spell, then tries to air the energy through the door. Blaise and Malfoy share a look. Jake frowns, trying to figure out if Harry's angry with Malfoy or just in general. He thinks it's the latter, but he can't be certain.

"Hey, Harry," Jake says, trying to give his ex a little smile. He sits back down at the desk closest to the door, wishing there were windows he could open here, just to air out some of Harry's anxiety. Goddamn, Jake thinks, studying Harry. Jake hasn't seen Harry this way in years, all that pent-up worry and strain twisting through him. Harry's at the incident board, rolling his shoulder, lips pressed together. He keeps darting little looks at Malfoy, but Malfoy's talking quietly with Blaise, not paying attention. Or pretending not to, Jake thinks. He's pretty goddamn certain that Malfoy knows exactly where Harry is in the room and what he's doing at all times.

Whitaker and Parkinson burst in at that moment, saving them all from any more tension. "Sorry guv," Parkinson says, her voice throaty. "We were with the recon team. We've found the damned surveillance statues everywhere. Granger said to tell you she'll check in later; she's still trying to compile a list with the Unspeakables."

"Fair enough," Harry says with a nod, as she and Whitaker sit down at the table in the middle. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up on end. "Let's get started then." He's practically quivering with nervousness, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

Jake settles back in his chair, his mental shield up. He and Harry may be well and truly over, but Harry's energy can still penetrate Jake's mental focus sometimes. Not to mention, if he's not careful, Malfoy can actually read his mind, and Blaise the surface of his thoughts, neither of which Jake is fucking comfortable with. Jake shakes his head, feeling distinctly self-conscious as he looks around the room. He's not sure how he got into this situation. Perhaps the worst thing is he's beginning to find it normal.

On the whiteboard, Harry writes out the time and date of the morning incident with Malfoy before turning to look at them. "As you all know, we've had a positive Lestrange identification, thanks to Draco this morning, and Hermione's texted me that she lifted the ID off of a mug in the bolthole." He looks over at Parkinson. "You can confirm this, yeah?"

Malfoy sits up at this. "Pans? You were there?" His face is haunted, bones stark in his face. The look he shoots Harry is almost betrayed, Jake thinks, and he wonders how much of all this Harry and Malfoy have actually spoken about. 

"Yes." Parkinson reaches into her satchel in response, pulling out a wand and setting it in front of Malfoy. "We found this. Your uncle was kind enough to leave it for us." She glances over at Jake, which puzzles him. "Or someone did. Don't worry--I've already dusted it and checked it for spellwork. It's clean."

Malfoy swallows, picks up the length of wood. "Thank Merlin." He shoots a wry look over to Harry. "I had to live without my wand for an entire summer thanks to that prat over there. I had no idea what I was going to do."

Harry gives him a tight shadow of a smile, and there's a story, Jake thinks, that might need telling at some point. "Needs must. Thanks for bringing it back, Parkinson." 

Curious, Jake thinks. Harry's shoulders are still tense and he's holding himself far too stiffly. He's not taking the attack on Malfoy well at all. And Malfoy's hanging by a thread himself, from what Jake can see. He wonders if Harry realises; Malfoy's damn good at keeping what he's feeling under wraps, but if Jake tries, he can feel the whirl of anxiety and fear coming from him too. And that, Jake suspects, is not going to go fucking well at all, not if the two of them aren't actually talking about what's going on here. 

Harry takes the sheaf of parchments that Whitaker hands him. "Hermione's list?" he asks, and Whitaker nods. Harry starts flipping through it, a furrow deepening between his brows. 

"What we have of it, so far." Whitaker leans over Parkinson in a friendly fashion. "I'm glad you're okay, Malfoy. We've been worried about you."

Malfoy purses his lips. "Thank you, Althea." He smoothes his fingers over his wand, then tucks it into the wand pocket of his grey trousers. "I'm rather glad to be here in one piece and no longer wandless."

Harry turns back from where he's been writing down details about the surveillance and the connections to other figures. "Perhaps we could all report on our activities today. Draco has the most to report, so why doesn't he go first?" Harry folds his arms over his chest and watches Malfoy.

Malfoy doesn't look at Harry. Instead he twists a lock of hair around one finger, before letting it spring free. He clears his throat, stares down at the desk in front of him. Jake wonders if he feels awkward, back here amongst his team again, but not really part of it. He knows how that feels, how strange it can be when you move on. Malfoy rubs at a scratch on the desk in front of him, then says, "So, I'm assuming you all know by now that, whilst out for a morning run, I was accosted and brought to a Death Eater hiding spot today by my charming uncle, our chief target. I'd no idea sport was so dangerous to one's health."

His tone is light, but Jake still can catch the roil of his fear if he looks. It must have been a horrible wake-up call, and Jake's actually surprised Malfoy's here to report to them, given what Jake knows about Rodolphus Lestrange. Blood is perhaps thicker than water, he thinks grimly. Any of the rest of them would be dead, he's certain of that.

"Did he say what he wanted from you?" Whitaker's face is thoughtful.

"To join the family business, it seems. He didn't take it well that I wasn't thrilled at the opportunity." There are suppressed laughs from Parkinson and Whitaker at the archness of Draco's drawl. Harry's mouth just tightens, and he looks away.

"Was he alone, old man?" Blaise cocks his head, reaching out to brush his fingertips across Malfoy's arm, and something in Jake unfurls at the sight of his visible concern and respect for Malfoy, the evidence of his fondness. Jake doesn't know when Blaise's gestures became so familiar, when he'd learnt to read his body so well, but every nuance of his movements speaks volumes now. "It's just... " Blaise looks over at Jake. "Well, we know there were others with him on Friday."

And that makes Jake tense. He hasn't stopped thinking about Eddie, hasn't stopped worrying about him. Jake's tried to call Eddie's cell phone over and over again, but it just goes to voicemail. Eddie's sure as hell not picking up for him, that much is clear.

Malfoy glances quickly over towards Harry, who's standing as impassively as he can at the board. It's almost as though he's apologising. Jake scents trouble and sits forward. Harry can be difficult when he's upset, and Jake gently inhales, trying to catch the scent of anything burning. Nothing yet. 

Then Malfoy surprises Jake by looking over at him. "I saw your brother. Eddie. Lestrange had him rough me up."

Jake's eyebrows shoot up. "That asshole." He's not certain if he's referring to Eddie or Lestrange, to be honest. His stomach twists. He knows Eddie's swanning about with Lestrange out of some goddamn misplaced sense of responsibility, but there's something more real about it now that Malfoy's been involved. Now that Malfoy's been hurt by Eddie. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling a bit sick. Eddie wouldn't hurt anyone unless he had to, Jake knows that. Eddie's a fucking shithead, and always has been, but he's also too goddamn smart to resort to violence on the regular. If Eddie went after Malfoy, then he didn't have a choice. Still, Jake hesitates, then he says, "I'm sorry."

Malfoy shrugs. "It's fine. Like I told Harry, your brother was careful. Only did what he needed to in order to make my uncle believe he was doing what he asked."

And that worries Jake even more. He leans forward, unable to stop himself from asking, "Did he seem all right?"

To his great relief, Malfoy nods. "Yes. He's definitely afraid of my uncle, which shows that he's possessed of his mental faculties. No Imperius. I got the impression, however, that he's not really taking Uncle Roddy's side, though." He frowns, considering. "My uncle needs him for something, but Eddie wouldn't tell me what."

"How did you communicate?" Harry's voice cuts in. "Did he say anything in front of Lestrange?"

Malfoy glances at Harry, then gives Jake a thoughtful look, before turning back to face the whiteboard and his boyfriend. Still, Jake thinks Malfoy's speaking to the room at large, and not Harry. "He's a pretty powerful Legilimens himself. Or broadcaster, at least. He can carry on conversations without speaking."

Jake swears beneath his breath. He remembers Malfoy saying something about this in NYC. "Well, at least he's good for something, that goddamn fuckwit." He's still so furious at Eddie for being mixed up in all of this, and clearly in such danger.

"He casts a mean Crucio," Malfoy says, his hand going to his chest, rubbing small circles across it. Jake's skin prickles in sympathy. Eddie had always been good at painful spells. Jake's felt them more than once, back when they were kids. Even from time to time when they were older and Eddie'd lost his temper. 

"You're leaving something out." Parkinson's voice is calm. She's eyeing Draco, Jake notices, almost if she can read something he's not saying. Or that she knows something herself. Malfoy meets her gaze evenly, and Jake thinks he's going to brush her off, until Parkinson says quietly, "Althea and I have readings on the magical signatures in the room." She doesn't look away. Malfoy swallows, his eyes sliding towards Harry. 

"Draco," Harry says. "What does she mean?"

Even Whitaker's not looking at Malfoy. "You might as well tell him," Whitaker murmurs. "It's in Parkinson's report."

Malfoy's quiet for a long moment. He scrapes his thumbnail across the wood of the desk, frowning, before he sighs, and says, "There was a Dementor with them. You know. Like there was in Gringotts." Harry starts to say something, and Malfoy holds up his hand. "It was my aunt." 

The room's silent, and then Harry says, his voice tight and low, "Your aunt."

"Yes." Malfoy swivels in his seat, looking at Harry, and Jake knows he hasn't told him this yet, that Malfoy wanted to keep this part of his account quiet. Malfoy's hand trembles a bit; he flattens it on the desk in front of him. "Bellatrix."

A poster on the wall about workplace confidentiality burst into flame. Blaise has it extinguished before it can burn fully, but only the top third remains.

"What the fuck?" Harry asks, and Jake thinks the rest of them could not even be in the room right now. "Your aunt's dead."

"And yet somehow," Malfoy says, lifting his chin in that defiant way that Jake's come to understand means Malfoy's feeling threatened, that he's digging in his heels like a damn fool. "Somehow, my dead aunt who went down in the bloody Battle of Hogwarts has become a sodding Dementor trailing my bastard uncle around fucking London!"

"Manchester, really," Parkinson says beneath her breath, but no one pays attention. 

Harry's looking at Malfoy as if he's lost his mind, as if Malfoy's stuck a knife into him. Jake wants to roll his eyes. Harry's always been a bit over-the-top when he feels as if he's been wronged. "And you know this _how?_ " 

Jake coughs, and Harry rounds on him. To be honest, Jake's happy to draw his fire. This tension between him and Malfoy's getting thicker by the moment, and Jake thinks Malfoy can't take much more of it. Not in the condition he's in; Malfoy's face is pale and drawn as it is. "Malfoy's been able to see Dementors for a while," Jake says. "In his Unspeakable work. He recognised someone the other day." He glances at Malfoy for confirmation.

"Yeah," Malfoy's hair falls in his face, and he doesn't brush it away. He looks like he's hiding behind it. "I saw Peter Pettigrew at Azkaban among the Dementors."

Jake thinks Harry might explode, he's so quiet. He adds another shielding spell for good luck. 

"You didn't say." Harry's not looking at Malfoy; he's twisting the whiteboard quill between his fingers. 

"No," Malfoy says, and there's the faintest hint of apology in his voice. "I didn't know how."

Harry glances at him then, and Jake sees the flash of pain cross Harry's face before he looks away again. 

Blaise sits forward, frowning. "That explains a lot to be honest." He turns to Harry. "Haven't wanted to bring this up yet, guv, but I've been trying to press my grandfather for details about the people who were these Dementors. He says some of them are recent, but he won't say more than that."

"Do you think he made any of the ones that are there?" Parkinson's voice is curious. "Given the Soul Grass comments and all."

At that, Blaise nods slowly. "I have my suspicions. But he was exiled before Pettigrew was killed."

Jake wants to say that he doesn't think Barachiel Dee could be responsible for these Dementors. Not the way he treats them, with gentleness. Kindness even. He exchanges a glance with Malfoy, who shakes his head. 

"I don't think this is your grandfather's doing, Blaise." Malfoy sounds tired. Worn out. "There's no way he turned my aunt." He runs his hands over his face, pressing them against his temple as if his head aches. It probably does Jake thinks. He can tell Malfoy's keeping his Occlumens up as best he can, but every so often, Jake can get a twist of something from him. Right now it's uncertainty. "I don't understand any of this," Malfoy says finally. "She's supposed to be fucking dead, Aunt Bella." He flinches, and he looks away from all of them. His fear drifts across the room towards Jake, and Jake wonders what it's like to be that afraid of someone you're related to. He may not like his asshole daddy, but Jake's not afraid of Jasper Durant. Not like that, at least.

Parkinson frowns. "I can't say I'm pleased your aunt's alive, Draco. She's a right bitch." 

Harry snorts, his back against the whiteboard. "Understatement there."

"She saved my life in a way, though," Malfoy says. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "Pulled my uncle off me at one point, or at least I think it was her." He frowns. "Maybe, unless my mind was addled, which I suppose it might have been." He looks up. "And my uncle was so powerful, it was uncanny." Malfoy pulls his wand out again, turning it in his hands. "He disarmed me without even trying, and Uncle Roddy might have been a good dueller in the past, but he was never anything like this. He had me restrained wandlesslessy with the barest gesture almost the moment I recognised him. He said the grimoire had given him power, and I'd say he's got two to three times the magic level I remember, maybe more." A visible shudder runs through him again.

Jake wonders what Malfoy's history with his uncle is. On second thought, from the look of fear on Malfoy's face, he doesn't have to wonder much. Crazy fucker probably terrorised him, Jake thinks. Or worse. He feels a wave of sympathy for Malfoy. Goddamn, but sometimes he wishes people could choose their own families. There'd be a hell of a lot fewer fucked-up people in the world then.

"Shit." Whitaker scowls. "That's not good. And we have no idea where he's going next." She looks over to Harry, who's stabbing at the board with the pen, writing down what Malfoy's said. "Do we, guv?"

Harry shakes his head, pausing at the end of a line. He looks back over his shoulder. "No. I think Gawain is going to issue a safety warning this afternoon, along with a mugshot from his Azkaban record. But we know fuck-all about his next target." He looks over significantly to Malfoy, who frowns and looks away. 

After a long silence that stretches through the room, uncomfortably, Harry sighs and says, "Draco was able to get some information from Eddie, however. At least we think it's Eddie.' He looks at Jake. "You'll recognise the handwriting, I hope."

Malfoy pulls a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket, handing it over to Blaise who holds it so Jake can see. 

"That's Eddie's handwriting, all right." Jake would know that scrawl anywhere. He looks up at Malfoy. "How'd you get this?"

"I think," Malfoy says, with a frown, "that he tucked the numbers in my pocket before he or my uncle dumped me back out in front of the Leaky. I'm fairly certain it has to do with the financial accounts Blaise was looking at." He pauses, then glances over at Jake. "Or it's some sort of code."

"Not likely," Jake says. "Eddie was never good with shit like that. I tried to teach him a substitution cipher when I was eight, and it nearly blew his mind." Eddie'd thrown the papers across the room after a half-hour of it, shouting at Jake that he was just showing off, just trying to make Eddie look dumb. 

All Jake had wanted was to play. Instead he'd been pummelled by his brother until his mama pulled Eddie off him, shouting at Eddie to go back up to his room. Eddie'd stomped off, sulking, but Jake's never forgotten how angry it'd made Eddie, how hurt Eddie'd been when he'd felt ignorant. Eddie's never really understood how smart he is, Jake thinks, never really known how much Jake looked up to him when they were kids. How much Jake still does. 

_Christ, Eddie,_ Jake thinks, _please don't get your fool ass killed in all of this. Mama'll come back to kick mine, if you do._

Blaise takes the curled, smudge slip from Malfoy, scanning the digits scratched hastily on it. "It looks like a BBAN. I don't see any country identification, but it's twenty numbers long, so if it's from the usual suspects, we can narrow down likely banks pretty quickly. It's probably SEPA," he says, half to himself. He bites his lip, and Jake has to turn away, his breath catching. Blaise has no idea how absolutely fucking hot he is when he's distracted by work and being casually brilliant. Of course he knows something about the Muggle bank just by parsing the numbers; he's a goddamn genius, isn't he? Jake wonders how loudly he's thinking when both Blaise and Malfoy look over to him. He looks away, his face heating.

"Can you find it?" Harry's brows knit together.

"Yeah." Blaise scratches the back of his head. "Probably by tonight if it's within Europe."

"Good. Gawain will authorise priority traces of anything you want." Harry writes a few more notes on the board about the number, and Blaise puts the paper in an evidence bag. He turns towards Parkinson. "How's the lab?"

Parkinson shrugs, pushing her tits forward. And oh, Jake thinks, Whitaker is so looking. He wonders when Parkinson's going to figure it out, if ever. He'd feel sorry for Whitaker if she weren't clearly able to score enough action while maintaining this hopeless crush on Parkinson. "The gargoyles are difficult to analyse. I'm worried about pushing too invasively--I think they're spelled with something that could destroy them, and I'd rather not have a piece of my lab go with them."

Harry nods. "If you need a containment unit, be in touch with Hermione. She's promised us anything we need from the Unspeakables side of things." 

"Got it, guv." Parkinson tucks a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "I'll run my tests in one." 

"Right." Harry looks between Blaise and Jake. "Anything from Dolohov?"

Jake shrugs. "That he's scared shitless at the idea that Lestrange might be pissed at him." He glances over at Malfoy. "Although with more information, maybe it makes sense that he is."

Harry frowns, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up. "Let's go hard on him again this afternoon. Take Whitaker with you--she's a good track record on pushing his buttons." 

"And he mine," Whitaker says, with a wince, and Harry gives her a sympathetic look. She hesitates, then says, "You know Luxembourg doesn't like me interviewing him, guv."

"Fuck Luxembourg," Harry says. "We need information, and you and Jake might be able to pry it loose." His face softens a bit. "You up for it?"

Whitaker hesitates, and then she nods. "Yeah." Jake's not so certain she's telling the truth, especially given the way she's rubbing her thumb against the file jacket in front of her. She looks a bit lost, a bit uneasy, and Jake thinks about pointing that out to Harry, but he's not certain it'll make a difference. Harry's right. They need info. Or some sort of breakthrough. Rodolphus Lestrange has been running loose for too goddamn long. 

Harry claps his hands together. "All right, here we go. Parkinson, back to the lab. Jake and Whitaker, go after Dolohov. Zabini, you track down that account. And Draco…" Harry's gaze falls on Malfoy. "You ought to go home. Rest."

Malfoy gives Harry a stubborn look. "You know I won't."

"I know." Harry's face is troubled. "Will you at least stay in the incident room? Just for now at least?"

Jake can tell Malfoy wants to object, wants to say no, but the way Harry's watching him, with those bright green eyes, and that worried frown….well. Jake's had that look turned on him before. He knows damn well how hard it is to refuse. And when Malfoy's shoulders slump, Jake feels a bit of sympathy for him. "Fine," Malfoy says wearily. 

And the fight goes out of Harry too. His gaze sweeps the room, takes in the way the others aren't looking at him. Jake can tell by the way Harry's cheeks flush that he knows the others don't know what to say. What to think. Harry clears his throat, sets down his whiteboard quill. "Let's go then, the lot of you. See what we can find--the first twenty-four hours are going to be our hotspot for tracking down Lestrange." 

Chairs scrape across the floors as they all stand. 

There's a hell of a lot of work to do, Jake thinks, looking around at the grim faces of Seven-Four-Alpha. 

He goddamn hopes they can handle it.

***

"Posh place, Parkinson," Althea says as she takes the seat across from Pansy. She looks a bit intimidated as she brushes her hand down the front of her striped shirt, the wide boatneck draped rather fetchingly over her sharp collarbones. "I would have dressed better."

Pansy waves a hand through the air, glancing around the dark panelled walls and crisp white tablecloths of Giancarlo's. Her father's been bringing her to this Italian steakhouse in Clerkenwell for as long as she can remember, mostly because her mother hates it and refuses to go. "It's not all that posh." Not compared to the places Camilla Parkinson prefers, that is. Pansy looks up as the waiter approaches, her mouth curving in a smile. "Johnny," she says, half-rising to kiss him on the cheeks. 

"Hullo, love." Johnny leans over to pour water into both their glasses from the carafe in his hand. Condensation runs down the side of the bottle. "I reckon you want a bottle of red." 

"Yes." Pansy takes the menu card he hands her. "But not your best. Merlin knows I can't fucking afford that."

Johnny winks at her. "I'll see what I have." He walks off, and Pansy sets the menu aside. She already knows what she wants. She reaches for her water, takes a sip, watching Althea frown down at the dinner possibilities. Really, Pansy thinks, it's ridiculous that Althea doesn't know how well she fits in here, with her long legs and her broad shoulders. Her one concession to going out when Pansy'd informed her she was buying dinner for them both because of the hell of a day they'd had was to wrap her long braid around her head, pinning it down. Pansy rather loves that Althea considers that dressed up. 

"The chateaubriand's particularly good," Pansy says after a moment. "And I've liked the risotto milanese before."

Althea just worries her lip between her teeth, shifting a bit uncomfortably in her chair. Pansy wonders if she's made a mistake by inviting Althea out, but she's been craving Giancarlo's osso bucco all afternoon, and she hasn't felt like sharing her night with the boys. Pansy's tired of the manpain, if she's being honest, of all the whinging they do about their relationships, whatever they might be. She's needs some time off from her best friends, and Millie's gone on holiday with Hannah in the Orkneys for the week, so Althea's her next best choice. Honestly, Pansy thinks with a sigh, fiddling with her fork before setting it aside, she really needs more friends who are women.

They're both silent for a bit, Althea still scowling at the dinner menu, Pansy staring into the mirror on the wall above Althea's head. She can see most of the restaurant in it, the shadowed nooks and crannies where business is done by men like her father, the sparkling chandeliers floating in mid-air, a charm around them to make the Muggles think chains are holding them up. Terry Parkinson had never minded that the restaurant was mixed wizarding and Muggle; he'd always told Pansy it gave him a bit more privacy than one of the places down Diagon or even Knockturn Alley might. Pansy sees Johnny coming towards them, a basket of bread in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, wrapped in a thick white napkin, and she sits straighter. Merlin but she needs a good glass of something tonight. 

Johnny lays a hand on her shoulder as he pours the wine for both of them, then sets the bottle on the table beside the basket of bread. "So what are we eating, love? The osso bucco?"

"You know me well." Pansy hands him her menu, then reaches for her wine and takes a sip. It's delicious, fruity and boldly spicy with a warm finish. She's fairly certain Johnny's dipped into the good stock for her; she's always been a favourite of his. 

Althea sighs, then looks up at Johnny. "Give me the chateaubriand." 

"Brill choice," Johnny says, taking her menu. "I'll be back shortly."

Pansy twists the stem of her wine glass between her fingers as he walks away. Althea takes a piece of bread from the basket, tears it apart as she lays it on her plate. Neither one of them say anything. The clatter of cutlery and the soft hum of conversation rises and falls around them. 

Althea clears her throat, brushing away crumbs from her fingertips. She lifts her wine to her lips, takes a drink. "Not bad," she says after a moment, setting her glass back down, and Pansy's mouth quirks up again. She's charmed by how awkward Althea can be at times, how uncertain. It's nice to see a more vulnerable side of her than what Althea presents in the office. 

"It's one of Tony's favourites," Pansy says, turning the bottle so Althea can see the label. "Johnny knows that."

"Oh." Althea glances down at her bread, picking off another piece and popping it into her mouth. She chews, then swallows. "You two come here a lot then."

Pansy doesn't know how exactly to answer that. "We have," she says finally. "But since he's been in New York…" She trails off, looks away. She still doesn't know where she and Tony stand at the moment. She misses him, and she knows damned well if he showed up at her doorstep, she'd let him carry her up to bed, but things are different now between the two of them, now that she knows he was investigating her father. Pansy isn't sure she can move past that--or that she wants to, if she's honest. 

"Things are awkward?" Althea asks, giving Pansy a sympathetic look. 

"Something like that." Pansy chews on her lip, not caring if she's biting off her lippie. Althea's not going to care, she thinks, and that's bloody refreshing in its own way. She sighs, lifts her wineglass. "Tony and I have always been complicated."

Althea doesn't push. Instead, she shifts in her chair and says, "So." She rubs at her earlobe. "Parkinson--"

"Are you ever going to call me by my first name?" Pansy asks, and she doesn't know if it's the wine relaxing her or her own amusement rising up. She likes the way Althea's cheeks flush, high and pink, the way Althea looks at her before her eyes slide away to the side. "It's not as if I don't call you Althea."

"I know." Althea hesitates. "It's just…." She trails off as Pansy leans forward, her elbows on the table. 

Pansy takes another sip of wine. "It's ridiculous, really," she says. "We work together on the same team, and whilst I don't mind the guv sticking to last names, I'd rather you not." She stops, turning the bowl of her glass between her fingers. The wine sloshes up the sides. "I mean if you'd like."

Althea looks a little gobsmacked. "All right." She tears off another piece of bread, rolls it into a ball between her fingers before dropping it back on the plate. "Pansy."

"That's better." Pansy leans back in her chair, feeling oddly pleased with herself. She studies Althea, takes in her sharp features, her long nose, her thin lips, her high forehead. Althea Whitaker's not someone most witches and wizards would find pretty. But she's striking, Pansy thinks, with those almost black eyes of hers that remind Pansy of Snape's and those long, strong fingers with the nails clipped short and her wide shoulders that look so bloody strong and capable. Lifting her glass to her lips again, Pansy wonders, almost idly, what Althea's like in bed, and the thought surprises her so much she nearly chokes on her wine.

"All right?" Althea asks, her brow furrowing, and Pansy just nods, draws the back of her hand against her mouth.

"Just went down wrong." It's then that Pansy looks up into the mirror behind Althea, as she sets her wineglass back aside. She stills, recognising a familiar bald head as it moves through the dining room. "Daddy?" Pansy murmurs, and she turns in her chair, ignoring Althea. 

Her father's making his way through the tables, and he's dressed sharply in a suit, a woman in a tiny, tight fitting dress beside him, his hand on the small of her back. Very bloody low on her back, Pansy thinks, her eyes narrowing. She takes in the woman, her blonde curls tumbling over nearly bare shoulders, her hips swaying just so, her breasts large and full as they press against the silver fabric of her dress. She's everything Camilla Hirsch Parkinson isn't, Pansy thinks, and the sheer fury of that realisation sends Pansy to her feet. 

"Daddy," she calls out, making her voice light. Her father's step falters, and Pansy sees the moment he thinks about moving on, about ignoring her, but he doesn't, thank Merlin. Pansy doesn't want to have to murder her father in his sleep. Terry Parkinson turns towards her, a wide smile cracking his face. Pansy knows that look. It's as fake as the diamond bracelet around the wrist of her father's companion. 

"Pansy," her father says, and he strides towards their table. The woman with him stops, looking a bit lost before following him over. Terry leans in, kisses Pansy's cheek. "How's my little girl?"

"Just brill." Pansy's stomach is churning. She looks past her father's shoulder towards the other woman, and a quiet, cold fury starts to build inside of her. The woman's barely older than herself, definitely no older than Daisy. "Introduce me."

Terry flinches, just enough for Pansy to notice. He chuckles, that nervous laugh he gives when he knows he's about to be caught out for something. "Emma, my dear, come meet my youngest, Pansy." He waves the woman closer. "Pumpkin--" And oh, how the childhood nickname grates on Pansy's nerves at the moment. "This is Emma Clarke. We're…" He hesitates, glancing back at Clarke who looks bloody uncertain, and Pansy's mouth tightens. "We're doing business together."

Pansy's sure they are, if by business her father means shagging like the bastard he is. She sweeps her gaze over Clarke's short dress, her bright red lips, her high heels that make her tower over Terry. "So you're a client," she says, and Clarke nods, almost a bit too emphatically. 

"Right in one," she says, in an accent that Pansy's bloody certain has more than a tinge of Geordie. "Your da's proper canny, yeah? Makes me brain near explode, he does."

And Pansy suspects that's not all the explosions her father's causing. She gives him a look, one he slides away from, focussing instead on Althea behind her. "Terry Parkinson," he says, holding out his hand, and Althea takes it, not bothering to stand from her seat. Good, Pansy thinks. Her father bloody well deserves that bit of rudeness.

"Sergeant Althea Whitaker." Althea's watching Terry with narrowed eyes. "I work with Park--" She stops herself, then says, "Pansy."

"Ah." Terry's forced cheer fades a bit. He's never been one to enjoy the presence of Aurors, Pansy excepted. "So you do. So you do." He hesitates, then says, "Whitaker, eh? Your mum wouldn't have been Clio Whitaker, would she?"

Pansy sees Althea's shoulders tighten, but Althea just nods. "She was."

"Lovely woman," Terry says after a moment. "Quite a sharp journalist too." His mouth quirks up on one side. "Ran me around the corner a time or two in her articles, but it was all in good fun, right?" From the way he grimaces, trying to coax it into a smile, Pansy can tell that's not quite the truth. Althea just looks at him, her face set. 

"Terry," Clarke says quietly, her hand on his elbow. "We've theatre tickets."

"Yes," Pansy's father says, a bit absently. His gaze shifts to Pansy. "With the others, of course."

There are no others. Pansy's known her father for almost twenty-six years now. She's learned her father's tells, the way he tugs at his cuffs when he's lying like he's doing now, the flush that rises up on his bald pate. And that's what breaks Pansy's heart the most. Not just that he's obviously stepping out on her mother. Pansy's not surprised by that; she's known the rumours for years, and her father's relationship with her mother is none of her bloody business, she thinks. But it hurts that he thinks her so stupid, that he's certain she's no idea he's lying to her. 

"We should let you go then," Pansy says quietly, and she tries not to pull away when her father touches her arm. "If you've people to meet."

Terry clears his throat. "Yes, well. Lovely to see you, my girl." He leans in, kisses her cheek, whispers, "Wasn't going to tell you, but I bought a piece by that Varo woman you were raving about last time you were at dinner with us. Thought I'd save it for Hanukkah, but maybe I'll just have it sent over this week. It'll look bloody fantastic in your sitting room."

Pansy knows damned well he's trying to buy her off, but there's a part of her that can't help but be warmed by the fact that her father had remembered that discussion, knows that she's bloody well obsessed with Remedios Varo, that she's been wanting a piece of hers to hang over her sitting room chimneypiece for ages now. And that's how Terry Parkinson gets to you, she thinks, that charm of his, the way he remembers small details of conversation you've half-forgotten, bringing them back in grand, sweeping gestures. 

She nods, even though she knows she should reject the offer, knows that the way his shoulders relax means he thinks she'll keep her tongue, that she won't tell her mother she's seen him. And, if Pansy's honest with herself, she won't. There's no sense in telling Camilla. Either her mother knows about this one, or she doesn't, and Pansy doesn't want to be the one that throws this particular dagger into her mother's heart. It's not a kindness, and Camilla would only be angry with her. Rightfully, Pansy thinks.

Her father steps away, nods at Althea. "I'm sure you've things to do this weekend. We won't see you on Friday night, then?"

"No," Pansy finds herself saying, the way he knew she would. But she doesn't want to go to Norfolk, anyway, doesn't want to sit alone with her parents with the Sabbath candles burning on the table, knowing this one of their mryiad secrets. She's angry at her father, and the sudden empathy and protectiveness she feels towards her mother surprises her. Pansy wonders when her relationship with her parents began to shift, when she started to understand her mother more than her father. 

She watches her father walk away, Clarke trailing behind him. 

"Pansy," Althea says quietly, and Pansy looks back. "Sit down."

She does, her body nearly going limp in the chair. Pansy reaches for her wine, takes a long sip. 

"Are you all right?" Althea's hand slips across the table; she touches Pansy's fingertips. Hers are warm and soft, and Pansy closes her eyes, drawing in a ragged, uneven breath. 

It's ridiculous to be this upset, Pansy knows. This sort of thing isn't uncommon among her parents' set. Her mother's been fully aware of her father's past indiscretions. But it's the first time Pansy's faced them full on. The first time her father's lied to her face so blatantly. The first time he's offered to pay her off for her silence. This one must be new, she thinks.

Pansy doesn't like this side of her father. She's known it's there, that her father wasn't always the charming, sweet man he is to her. That he can be manipulative to get what he wants. It's the secret to her family's success, after all. Her grandfather was like that, and her great-grandfather, and probably her great-great-grandfather as well. The way Parkinsons treat family is different from how they treat others. Even Pansy's fallen prey to that. 

She thinks of the scroll her sister gave her, the one she's still to deliver to her father. It's been more than a fortnight now, and the longer Pansy holds on to it, the more she knows what she means to do. Tonight, she thinks, has only solidified that realisation. 

"What?" Althea asks, looking at her, her brow furrowed in worry. "You've the worst look on your face."

Pansy sits back in her seat, reaches for her bag on the floor. She's kept the scroll on her, carrying it to work every day. She's told herself it's to keep it safe, to make certain she doesn't lose it. But Pansy knows the truth. It's so she has it close, for when she finally made her decision. She digs into the bag, past her wallet, her lipstick tube, the tampons left over from her last period, and her DMLE badge. The scroll's fallen to the bottom, small and tight. She pulls it out, hands it over to Althea.

"What's this?"Althea turns it in her hands. She looks up at Pansy. "It's warded." 

"Heavily." Pansy reaches for her wine, knocks back a long drink of it. She sets her glass back down. "My sister gave it to me just before we left New York." Pansy drags her tongue over her bottom lip, licking away the remnants of wine. "Before she disappeared."

"With Godunov." Althea runs a thumb along the seal; it sparks and she nearly drops it, swearing. 

Pansy nods. "She told me to give it to my father."

"And you didn't." Althea holds the scroll up. "Which means you think there's information on here we might need."

It takes Pansy a moment to answer. She sighs, rubs a thumb over the rim of her wine glass. "It means I think there's information on there that could implicate my family in things which we might be investigating."

Althea's silent. She looks down at the scroll, frowning, then hands it back to Pansy who tucks it in her bag, dropping it back on the floor. "And now your father just narked you off."

Pansy picks up her wine glass, drains it, then pours more from the bottle. "I'm a bit more jaded with my father than I was before." She holds the glass between both hands, looking down at the rich, red liquid. "My mother's protected him for years, and so have Daisy and I. He's ours, you know? And it's not as if any of us thought him blameless, but…" She trails off, not certain she can explain it. 

"I know," Althea says after a moment. "Family secrets, yeah?"

"Yeah," Pansy says, her voice quiet. They look at each other, and Pansy sees her own worry mirrored in Althea's face. "I'm sorry about your mother," Pansy says finally. 

Althea takes a sip of her own wine, glancing away. "It is what it is," she murmurs. "I just wish my dad would tell me the truth about her."

"Me too." Pansy presses her lips together. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind Althea's head, sees her pale face and her shadowed eyes. She's so bloody tired; she wishes all this were over, that she could go back to her lab and her steady rhythm of Auror cases, the way Jonesey has. Part of her wishes that the guv had never pulled her onto Seven-Four-Alpha, that she could have stayed away from the field, away from anything that might upset her placid acceptance of her life, of who her family is, of what her world revolves around. Everything's changed now, and with change comes pain, Pansy realises. She looks at Althea. "This is wretched. All of it."

"Yeah." Althea sighs. She gives Pansy a half-smile. "So are you going to crack the wards on that scroll?"

It's right then that Johnny shows up again, plates in hand. He sets one down in front of each of them, then glances over at Pansy with a knowing look. "Can I get you anything else?"

Pansy smiles wryly at him. "We're fine." She tries to avoid his concerned gaze. She knows he must have seen her father with her, but he's not going to comment. He's far too discreet for that. Besides, her father's probably bloody well paid him for his silence too.

"So more wine then," Johnny says, his voice soft. "And grappa after."

"Exactly," Pansy says, and he rests a hand lightly on her shoulder again before he slips away. 

Althea shakes her head. "You never answered," she points out, reaching for her fork and knife. "About the scroll."

Pansy eyes her. "I'm not going to crack the wards," she says after a moment. She's half-suspected her sister put a ward on specifically to keep her out, given the way the scroll keeps sparking at her touch when she tries to slide a fingernail beneath the thick wax seal. Althea raises an eyebrow at her, and Pansy picks up her fork. "You are."

And that decision feels so damned good, Pansy thinks, even as Althea stares at her in surprise. 

Pansy reaches for her wine glass, and smiles.

***

They've eaten a simple dinner, Draco and Harry, mainly in exhausted silence, and now Draco's settled on the library sofa, trying to read a book on Japanese wizarding woodblock prints to distract his mind from drifting back to thoughts of this morning. There's an exhibit coming next month to one of the galleries down Diagon, and Draco's promised his mother he'll go with her and his Aunt Andromeda. And that makes him think of his other aunt, and his breath catches in the back of his throat before he closes his eyes, tries to calm himself. He uses the Occlumency techniques Burke's been working with him on, setting up blocks in his mind to corner off the image of his aunt's face beneath the tattered hood of the Dementor. It takes a moment, but he manages, compartmentalising it away until the panic recedes. Draco glances over at Harry, sat by the fire in one of the wing chairs, frowning down at a file jacket. He hasn't noticed, thank Merlin. Draco exhales, letting the quiet emptiness fill his body, the soft buzzing of the silence between him and Harry nearly overwhelming him.

Draco turns the page in his book. He's almost interested in the descriptions of landscape perspective changes and various types of inks and glazes; it's the sort of thing he'd have been fascinated by a few months ago, and Draco wonders if he's changed, being here with Harry like this, if he's trapping himself in the comfort of this relationship. He barely sees his friends, and he knows he hasn't wanted to lately, that he's wanted to hide himself away from everyone, his mother included, and Harry's let him. Draco doesn't know why. He ought to have been forcing Draco out, telling him he has to spend time with Pansy and Blaise, with Greg and Mills and Theo--well. Maybe not Theo, who can be a complete twat. But still. 

There's a part of Draco that knows he's being unfair, that knows Harry's pushed him to see his friends, that knows it's been his own choice to stay in Grimmauld, but he can't help himself. Something twists in him, deep and old and ugly, something that Draco doesn't want to name, doesn't want to even acknowledge, something that Draco had thought he'd put away after the war. He's fought for so long to change the boy he was into the man he is now. He's tried to make himself stronger, better, less able to be fooled. He's trained his body; he's training his mind. He isn't the Draco Malfoy he was when his uncle terrorised him. He's not weak. Not pathetic. Not easily cowed. Or so he thought up until this morning.

Now he's frightened, and he's tired, and he doesn't bloody well know what to do. And the worst of it is that he can't talk to Harry about this, can't even bring it up. There's no room for Draco's fear around Harry right now; Draco can't handle Harry's own terror of losing him. The feelings are too much, too complex, too wounded for Draco to even admit this morning brought up memories and dread that Draco's been trying to keep at bay since his father's death, ones that Draco can't bear to face alone.

So, instead, Draco reads, burying himself in the comfort of books the way he had when he was younger, curling himself into a small ball, tucked in the corner of the sofa where he's barely noticeable in the shadows of the room. He frowns down at the woodcut reproductions in the book. He knows from experience accompanying his mother to gallery showings that the exhibition's subject material could be varied, although he doubts the gallery will show the full gamut of the artwork: his great-uncle's erotica collection at the Manor--the one Draco wasn't supposed to know existed, but which he and Greg had found during one rainy afternoon the summer Draco turned thirteen--had several notable wizarding shunga examples, both hand-painted scrolls and mass-produced, book-like variants. Draco had learned a lot in his youth from these highly coloured, moving images, especially after he'd learnt to cast translation spells.

"Are you avoiding me?" Harry's question catches Draco off-guard. Draco glances up again; Harry's biting his lips and frowning at him from across the room. He's closed the file he was reading, Draco notices, and, really, stress and overwork has to be part of the reason Harry's temper's been so fierce today. He's never not working on this case, it seems, and that worries Draco, if he's honest. No one works the way Harry does, Draco thinks, not even Draco himself. It's as if Harry buries all of his worries in the adrenaline of stress, drugging himself with work so he doesn't feel things. Today had surprised Draco, Harry's moment in the office, his face buried against Draco's thigh. And that's when Draco had known he needed to keep things to himself, that Harry hasn't the strength to carry Draco's worries as well.

Harry just watches Draco, the question still hanging between them. He looks young and uncertain, Draco thinks. As if he thinks Draco's going to snap at him. And perhaps that's not an impossibility. Draco knows he's been tense himself; he hadn't wanted to talk over dinner, and he'd made that perfectly clear every time Harry had started to try. 

With a sigh, Draco sets his own book down on a table. "No. I'm just trying to think about something else for a bit." He massages his temples, hoping to ease the throbbing in his head. His ribs still ache, and he's been trying not to tap into his own well of panic that's been twisting through his belly all day every time he thinks of his uncle, of his aunt. That'll solve exactly nothing, he knows; it'll only make everything worse. There's a part of him that wants to go to his mother, wants to feel her arms around him, wants to hear her say it'll be all right, even if it won't. She knows what he went through, at least part of it, that is, and she won't think him mad. She never would. 

And his mother's the last person he can talk to about any of it, isn't she? He'll be bloody damned if he sets her down the same panicked path, telling her that her sister and her brother-in-law are back like this. Draco will protect his mother with his last breath. He's always promised himself that, even back in those horrible days, when every moment brought the risk of the Dark Lord's ire and a sudden death by snake or Killing Curse.

Draco looks up at Harry. "Stop worrying. I'm fine."

Harry hesitates, then he says, "Only you've felt miles away all day." He looks down at the floor. "And I'm beginning to wonder what I've done wrong."

He looks so miserable, underneath all the bravado, that Draco almost pities him. Almost. Except Draco really can't deal with pitying someone else tonight. It's horrible of him, he knows. He loves Harry, and he wants to get up, to go sit on the arm of Harry's chair, to kiss his forehead and tell Harry everything will be all right. But Draco can't. He has too much galling him, too many demons threatening to break free if he loosens his tight grasp on them. If he's honest, Draco knows he should have gone to bed hours ago, even if it's only half nine now. His body aches with every movement, skin and bone barely stitched together over the terror he feels. But Draco's overtired and spiteful, terrified and nervy. He doesn't want to sleep because he's afraid of what he'll see, doesn't want to face the dreams, and Harry's endless neediness is not helping him settle down.

And then Harry says, "I know you're angry with me," and it's the last straw, the last thing Draco can take today, this Gryffindor melancholy that isn't about anything Draco's done but how Harry's feeling, and fucking hell, it's too bloody much.

"Oh, fuck off, Harry." Draco can't help it; his anger bursts forth in a flare. "For once, this isn't fucking about you."

"What the hell--" Harry's on his feet, looking as if Draco's slapped him, and Draco's pushing himself off the sofa before Harry can reach him, putting the arm between them, and the words are pouring out, the fear and the anger and the utter exhaustion being lanced like a boil, sharp and stinging before Draco can stop himself. 

"You never listen to me," Draco says, his voice rising. "It's always about your own fear, isn't it? Never about how I feel. Maybe I am angry with you, but why the hell do you care?" The words catch in the back of his throat; he swallows around them. "And there you are at work, ordering me to go home--"

Harry throws the file jacket onto the floor. "I let you stay!" 

"Let me!" Draco's pulse is pounding, his head aches. "That's the whole problem. You can't _let_ me do anything, Harry. I'm a fucking adult who can make my own fucking choices--"

"Goddamn it, Draco," Harry's face is crumpled, livid with rage. "You never fucking think about other people. It's always about what you want to do. You never fucking think. Your uncle could've killed you this morning. He still might, if you're not careful." Harry's almost pleading, and Draco has to look away. 

"I already told you, I don't need you to save me, Harry." Draco's panting, and he knows he needs to stop, knows he needs to pull back before he says something he regrets. His body feels like he's run miles. It's oddly exhilarating, even as he feels like he's throwing himself over a cliff. "Maybe I don't want to be saved. Maybe I don't want to live in fear, and maybe I don't want you to help me." And that's part of it, isn't it, Draco thinks. He saved himself this morning and no one's recognised that, least of all Harry, no one's seen what he did, how he survived, how he stood up to his uncle and walked away, battered and bloodied but goddamn fucking _alive._ "Whatever you think, I don't need a fucking Saviour."

Harry shakes his head, as if to shake off Draco's words. "No. No, Draco. You don't get to do that. I don't fucking want to save you. I just want you to be okay."

"But you do." Draco presses the knife of his words against the soft underbelly of Harry's resistance. "You always do. You want to save everyone now because back then you couldn't save the ones you cared about."

Harry takes a long, ragged breath. The silence between them stretches out. Draco can see Kreacher in the doorway, face creased, hands twisting together, and Draco feels sorry, he truly does, but he doesn't regret what he said. Not entirely. Not really.

"I don't want you to save me, Harry," Draco says again after a moment. "I don't need that from you. I need…" He stops, not certain. And then he knows. He can't be here tonight. Not like this, not feeling as if his skin is too tight, his body on fire. He'll say something he doesn't mean, do something he shouldn't. Draco knows himself well enough, knows how destructive he can be, knows the way he might lash out. He blinks away the hot wetness in his eyes, feeling suddenly lost. Bereft. Part of him wants to throw himself around Harry, to tell him he needs _him._ But he's angry still, and it's not just with Harry. It's everything, bubbling up inside of him, hot and festering, like a ripped-open wound.

"What?" Harry asks, and the word's a raw echo in the quiet of the room. 

Draco wraps his arms around himself. "I need to be somewhere else," he says finally. "Somewhere not here." 

And then Harry looks away. "Well, if that's how you feel," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "Just go then."

Draco hesitates, wonders if he's being a fool. He wants to say he's sorry, but that darkness deep in his belly's still twisting, curling up inside of him. Harry will never understand that, Draco thinks. And maybe Draco doesn't want him to. He walks over to the Floo, pinches powder thoughtfully between his fingertips, the shimmering dust cooling his nerves a little. "All I want," he says, not looking back at Harry, "is to be your equal."

Harry's silent, and that's all the answer Draco needs. He just needs to get away, have some time to think, some time to calm the fury that's building up inside. _I love you_ , Draco wants to say. Instead he just stares into the faint embers of the Floo fire, hating himself for being so bloody fucked-up.

"I'll be back," Draco says thickly. "Eventually." He throws the powder into hearth.

The green of the fire flares and he steps through, into the void. The last thing he sees as he swirls away, is Harry's anguished face, watching him.

***

His body sated once more, Blaise collapses against the cool cotton of his sheets. His nerves are still sparking and shivering, his stomach roiling with the pleasure of being fucked. He sucks air in shallow pants, trying to restore his breathing rhythm and his calm. He feels bloody fantastic, though, and the deep seated hollow ache in his body only accentuates the high washing through him in thudding waves of pleasure. It seems trite, but even his toes are tingling. Merlin but Jake Durant is a devastatingly thorough fuck.

He must have thought that a bit too loudly because Jake laughs against Blaise's skin, raising gooseflesh as he murmurs into Blaise's ear, "Give me another couple of minutes and we'll go again." His teeth scrape over Blaise's neck, and he soothes the sting with his lips. "If you want."

"Fuck. You're bloody insatiable, you know." Something deep and primal within Blaise's core stirs, unfolding in a rustle of wings and sharp, biting desire. He does want this; he wants Jake, over and over, as many times as he can have him. Blaise's arse twinges, and he makes a note to go to the loo and use that numbing cream Phillipe had first brewed for him when they were together in France almost five years ago now, he realises. Now Blaise has had good cause to use it, twice in less than a week, what with Jake back in town and apparently randier than ever. They'd started with fumbling hand jobs and blow jobs when Jake'd first come over tonight, surprising Blaise by knocking on his door, then pushing him back against it in a desperate, rutting kiss. Afterwards, Jake had spent at least half an hour eating Blaise's arse out before shagging him into the mattress. If they go again, it'll be at least round three for them both. Well. If they're recording orgasms. Blaise rolls onto his back, feeling deliciously worn out. At some point he wants to bury himself in Jake's body; it's just he can't seem to get past how brilliant it feels to have Jake moving inside him, spreading him wide with that lovely thick prick of his. Still, turnabout's fair play, Blaise thinks, and he wonders if he could convince Jake to let him have a go. 

Jake snorts against Blaise's shoulder. "Probably," he mumbles, and Blaise turns his head, gives him a solid glare.

"You have to stop reading my mind," Blaise says.

"Stop being so bloody loud." Jake shifts, curling himself around Blaise's side. His hand drifts over Blaise's chest, fingers circling one of Blaise's nipples. "Besides, I like the way you think." He flips a thumb across the pebbled nub.

Blaise hisses then laughs. "Like I said, you're a randy fuck." He stretches, his body so very languid and lazy. "We should probably drink something first." Blaise has a dull craving for the mineral water he keeps in crates in the kitchen; it fades a bit as Jake's hand slips lower. "Merlin, man. Let me get my breath back, at least."

Jake's fingers are warm as they brush over Blaise's hip, and the one thing Blaise can feel from Jake's thoughts is a soft, pleased, unfocused desire. Blaise relaxes into the rumpled sheets, listening to the late night chatter outside of his open windows, the voices ringing in the lamplit street. It's beginning to get a little darker in the evenings again, but the heat has everyone going out later for food and fun, even on a work night. Blaise's grateful for the summer night, the comfort of his bed and the cooler breeze that's begun to blow from the windows.

The whoosh of the Floo in the sitting room stirs Blaise out of his reverie instantaneously. He jumps up so quickly that he almost flies off the bed into a standing posture, his wand in hand. 

Jake sits up. "What the hell--"

"Quiet," Blaise murmurs, and Jake falls silent. He doesn't look happy though. Frankly, neither is Blaise.

There are only a handful of people who have Blaise's Floo permissions, his mother being chief among them, and Blaise does not under any circumstances want to face Olivia Zabini starkers with Jake Durant sprawled in his bed. He doubts she'd be surprised--she was dropping casual hints and questions at their last lunch that suggested she suspected he might be seeing Jake, so he wonders exactly what his grandfather's been telling her--and Jake his grandfather, come to think of it--but Blaise'll be damned if he's going to confront her with actual proof. It just isn't done, especially since Jake and he have no plans to date. They're just fucking, nothing else, and one doesn't let one's mother know a thing like that.

Swearing beneath his breath, Blaise grabs a pair of light, blue striped cotton pyjama trousers from his dresser, pulling them on and tucking the drawstring under the waistband, before striding for the door, his fingers tight around the hilt of his wand. Jake already has his wand in his hand and an ominous look on his face. Blaise holds out a hand, stopping him from getting up.

"Just stay," Blaise says quietly, and Jake settles back against the headboard, nods once.

The rustling from the other room propels Blaise down the hallway, his Auror training screaming for caution and his pulse pounding. Blaise knows he'll have backup from Jake if it's some sort of magical home invasion, and to be honest, he'd almost prefer that right now. Blaise has no idea what he'll do to explain his current bedroom visitor if Olivia's decided to pay him a late-night call. And that's not as unlikely as he'd like, really. His mother has a terrible habit of popping over whenever she likes, and Blaise is almost entirely certain she takes great joy in catching him unawares. 

Besides, Olivia can read Blaise like no one else, not even Pansy or Draco. Perhaps he can tell her he needs to dress, and keep Jake hidden in his closet or under his bed until they leave. For Merlin's sake, the man's an Unspeakable, which means he must have some sort of invisibility trick up his sleeve, but, well, Olivia is Olivia, too, and his mother can bloody well see through brick walls when she wants to. Anyway, Blaise thinks, the ruse’ll only work if she wants him to go somewhere with her. If she's planning to stay, it might be better to come forward with Jake, as much as that makes his stomach tie itself in knots. His mind calculates all of the options. There aren't really any other escape routes, are there? Fuck. And Apparition is too obvious, even with Unspeakable training. Really, this is something he ought to have considered beforehand.

Blaise steps into the front room, his wand held high, his weight light on the balls of his feet. When he catches sight of Draco on his hearth, nostrils flaring, face flushed and angry tears in his eyes, Blaise lowers his wand. 

"Hello, old man," Blaise says softly, padding closer, but not close enough for Draco to lash out if it's that sort of visit. There are things one learns after over a decade of friendship with Draco Malfoy, after all. "You're up late."

Draco sniffs, frowns, his head bending forward, hair tumbling across his cheek to hide his face, and that's when Blaise knows it's bad. "I'm sorry. I just--" He breaks off, folds his arms over his chest, looking away. "I had a row with Harry, and I needed somewhere to go."

"It's okay," Blaise says, even though he's a bit embarrassed to have his best friend arrive just when he's letting said best friend's boyfriend's ex fuck the stuffing out of him. But he supposes this is their new normal now, and Draco will just have to deal. "I'm glad you're here. You know you're always welcome."

"Thanks." Draco eyes Blaise then, a look of curiosity on his face. His brow furrows. "Is it very hot in your bedroom? Only you're rather…" He waves a hand up and down Blaise's bare torso. "Moist."

Blaise knows he's sweaty, and his body's still hot from his recent activities with Jake. He hasn't even had the time to cast all of his cleaning and grooming spells yet, and he's not so certain Draco should get too close, lest he smell exactly what Blaise has been up to. He clears his throat and dodges the question. "It's cooling down now. Took a while for the charms to kick in." 

Draco doesn't really need to know why it's hot in his bedroom, Blaise thinks. Really, Draco looks all but shattered at the moment, and Blaise can tell he's barely keeping his composure.

"Hi, Malfoy," Jake's voice comes from the door to Blaise's bedroom, much to Blaise's dismay, and really, goddamn it, how the hell is this Blaise's life now? When Blaise turns to scowl at Jake, he's relieved to see the bastard's fully clothed, at least. "I just need to get my shoes," Jake says to Blaise, and at least he has the grace to give Blaise an apologetic look, "and then I'll get out of your hair."

With Draco watching, eyebrows raised and a thin, amused smile quirking the corners of his mouth, Jake walks over to the sofa to retrieve his shoes. "Cooling down back there, is it?" Draco asks a bit archly.

"Sod off." Blaise pinches his nose. Jake doesn't put his shoes on, merely picks them up with his left hand, holding the leather insteps together in one hand. His finely shaped, long feet send a shudder of sudden want through Blaise. He likes Jake barefoot, he decides, only slightly disturbed at discovering a foot fetish this late in his life.

Jake walks over to Blaise, and Blaise frowns, still feeling prickly and hot and a bit bothered. He's been trying to put distance between them, trying not to let Jake see how much he wants him--or to let Draco see for that matter--but it's so bloody hard when Jake gets near and Blaise can smell himself on Jake's skin. Jake looks at Blaise for a moment, almost as if Draco's not even there, then he leans in, brushes a light kiss over Blaise's lips. It feels so good, and Blaise hates him so much for kissing him in front of Draco. Except that he doesn't really. But he should. He really fucking should.

"I'll see you soon," Jake says softly. Nodding to Draco, he grabs a pinch of Floo powder, throws it into Blaise's fireplace. The green flames flare, and then, in a whirl, the complex, raw-boned disaster for Blaise's heart that is Jake Durant disappears.

Draco shakes his head before Blaise can say anything. "It's nothing I haven't suspected, you know. I do have eyes." He studies Blaise. "Are you dating him?"

"No," Blaise says, and that will have to do, he thinks, for right now, despite the flare of curiosity in Draco's gaze. "What happened between you and Potter?"

"It's stupid." Draco walks over to the sofa, sits down on the edge of it, his hands clasped between his knees. "I lost my temper. He lost his."

"Yeah?" Blaise eyes him. Draco looks a hell of a lot more fragile than that. "About?" He sits gingerly on the arm of the sofa, next to Draco. 

Draco doesn't answer for a long moment, then he sighs. "Harry has issues." He stops, his lip caught between his teeth. "He tries to protect me too much," Draco says finally. "And maybe I needed that for a while…" He trails off. 

"Until you didn't?" Blaise asks quietly. It's something he and Pans have been worried about, this Gryffindor need of the guv's to wrap Draco up in cotton wool as if he's some sort of fragile, breakable treasure. That's not Draco. It never has been. Draco's survived through a hell of a lot that would have felled a lesser man. Hell, Blaise thinks he'd never have made it through their seventh year without going mad if he'd been forced to live the way Draco had. That doesn't mean there's not still some trauma there. Even Draco knows that. Sometimes Blaise thinks Draco ought to go back to that Mind Healer he'd gone to years ago, the one that had helped him get his bearings the first time. But he's worried about suggesting it, afraid Draco will say he doesn't need it any more. And maybe Draco'd be right, but Blaise doesn't think so. 

Draco rubs his thumbs over his knuckles. "It's hard sometimes," he says, "to be with someone like Harry." He falls silent, and Blaise almost thinks that's all Draco's going to say until Draco looks over at him. "I love the arsehole, you know."

"I have eyes too.” Blaise waits, gives Draco time to say what he needs to.

And Draco bends his head, sits there for a long moment. "But he's Harry, and I'm me, and I know sometimes he thinks he has to protect me, and maybe I let him, but…" He leans back with a frustrated groan. "I don't need a Saviour, Blaise. I need a lover. And sometimes I think Harry can't see the difference."

Blaise watches him, sees the struggle that crosses Draco's face. "But he loves you too." And that's an understatement, Blaise thinks. The guv's arse over tit for Draco like no one else Blaise has ever seen.

"I know." Draco barely breathes out the words. He runs his hands through his hair. "I feel trapped."

And that surprises Blaise. "By Potter?"

"Yes?" Draco leans forward again, his elbows on his knees. "No. Fuck." He rubs his long fingers over his face, pressing his fingertips against his eyes. "It's everything. I couldn't bear if Harry told me not to come back to Grimmauld. I really couldn't." He drops his hands, looks over at Blaise. "And yet, the thought of him telling me I can't leave because he's worried my uncle might…" He shakes his head. "It makes my skin crawl." He bites his lip. "I spent too long trapped in the Manor, then trapped at school. I can't do that again. I can't, Blaise--"

Blaise is starting to see the problem. "Draco." He glances at his best friend, his brilliant, frustratingly obtuse best friend, and he thinks sometimes that the guv might deserve another goddamned Order of Merlin for putting up with Draco. "You tit, you're not upset about Potter. It's your uncle, isn't it? Having him out--" He breaks off when a shudder goes through Draco, bending him forward so that his head's between his knees. "Hey," Blaise says, a bit more gently. He lays his hand on Draco's back, stroking in small circles. "You know you're going to have to talk about this with Potter, yeah?"

He can feel how Draco's struggling to breathe. He keeps his palm against Draco's shirt, remembering all the times in seventh year he'd done the same. And this is why Draco came to him, he realises. Because Blaise knows, at least in a slight way. Blaise had been there the nights Draco had come back from the Manor, the nights his uncle had gone after him, after his mother, the nights the Dark Lord had threatened Draco with death. 

"Hey, you," Blaise says again, his voice soft. "Just breathe, all right?"

Draco nods, and Blaise can feel the quivers going through Draco's body, those memories being brought up. He can't send Draco back to Grimmauld Place right now. Not like this. "You need some time away, don't you?" Blaise asks. It's everything, Blaise thinks. Lestrange, his father, the shock of seeing his mad aunt. Everything on top of how fragile Draco already is. 

"Just a night," Draco manages to get out. "Please." He draws in a ragged breath, raises his head. His cheeks are wet and flushed. "Harry can't see this."

Frankly, Blaise thinks it'd do Potter some good, but he knows what Draco means. It'll only enflame the guv, make him more frantic to find Lestrange, and probably send him off to do something bloody stupid like a sodding Gryffindor, which is the last thing any of them need. He stands. "All right then. On your feet." He pulls Draco up off the sofa. "You can stay here with me tonight. Does the guv know where you are?"

Draco shrugs. "He was there when I Flooed over."

And that means nothing, Blaise thinks. He wants to shake some sense into Draco. If Potter doesn't know where Draco is, the guv will be bloody ripshit. He sighs, knowing there's no sense in lecturing Draco about that; he already has that mulish look on his face.

"Why don't you go get cleaned up first?" Blaise gestures down the hall towards the loo. "I'll get some things together for you, and we can go into my bedroom."

"And change the sheets, please," Draco says over his shoulder, already heading towards the hall. "I fucking hate the smell of lemongrass now." He grabs a towel from the linen cupboard and strides into the bath.

Blaise frowns at that, remembering something Draco'd said about Potter and Jake and sheets. He'd best not think about it, or else his jealousy will come for him. He doesn't like to think about Jake with anyone but him. Even the guv, as much as he knows he's Draco's now.

When he hears the sound of his shower--of course Draco couldn't resist: it has damn fine pressure, Blaise has to say, and Draco'll be in there for twenty minutes at least--Blaise grabs his mobile and goes into the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of firewhisky whilst he dials.

The guv picks up on the fourth ring. "What?" he snaps, and Blaise holds the mobile a bit away from his ear, frowning into it.

"I've got him," Blaise says.

Potter curses, then stops. "Thank you." His voice’s brittle and gruff, and Blaise can hear the worry in just those two words. He hesitates, not certain if he should get involved, really, but the thing of it is that Potter doesn't entirely know how to handle Draco, Blaise thinks. He's done a smashing job of it so far since Lucius' funeral, but Draco's temperamental at the best of times, and when he's feeling raw and fragile...well. They've all stumbled into moments like this, every last one of them.

"Look," Blaise says. "You need to let him have some space, guv." Blaise isn't certain it'll help, but he has to say this, if only for Draco's sake. "He needs to process this."

"I'm trying," Potter says, and he sounds tired. Frustrated. "I really am, Zabini."

"Not bloody hard enough." Blaise feels his temper rise, and he quells it. This isn’t his fight. As much as he loves Draco, this is between Draco and Potter. Not him. "Try harder."

"I will." Potter's radiating anxiety now. He's silent for a moment; if it weren't for the pop and hiss of the line, Blaise would have thought the guv had rung off. And then Potter sighs, and Blaise can hear a world of pain in that soft huff of breath. "But I'm so worried about him, about what Lestrange--not to mention fucking Bellatrix--could do to him."

"And you think he isn't?" The sting of firewhisky is a welcome burn in Blaise's throat. "He went through it today, guv. Not you."

"I know." Potter's quiet again, and then he says, almost too softly for Blaise to hear, "but what if something happens to him? What will I do?"

Blaise hears the clink of ice on the other end of the link, the quick slosh of spirits. He's not the only one drinking tonight apparently. "You'd get up," Blaise says. "You'd take every bloody morning one by one." And he doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to believe anything could ever happen to Draco. He's survived so much, already. Blaise wants to think Draco's invincible. Even if he's not.

"They all leave," Potter says after a moment. "Eventually."

"Who?" Blaise takes a sip of his firewhisky, leans against the edge of the counter. His kitchen's small, a narrow galley barely able to fit two people in it. Blaise likes it that way. 

Potter doesn't answer at first; Blaise hears ice against glass, then a soft sigh. "Everyone I care about. Except Ron and Hermione. They've stayed, but they have each other, yeah? I just have me."

"Rubbish." Blaise sets his glass down. "You've Draco. And me, and Pans and Althea. And Granger and Weasley would drop anything for you. So stop being so bloody maudlin, you prick." He's a bit taken aback that he's talking to his SIO like this, but fuck it. The guv needs to hear this. "And you can't save us all. Life is going to happen, and we all chose to be in the Aurors, guv. We knew what we were signing up for, just like you did."

"But I ought to--" Potter's voice rises.

"Fuck that." Blaise falls silent. He can hear the guv's soft breaths from the other end of the line "Look, you've got to let Draco fight his battles on his own, Potter," Blaise says finally. "He took care of it today, without you. Is that's what's bothering you?"

"Perhaps.” Potter’s quiet again. He huffs a bitter laugh. "I don't know anymore."

"Well," Blaise says, lifting his glass to his lips, "make sure you've got hangover potion tomorrow, and try to get some sleep. This'll sort itself."

Potter hesitates, and then he says, "Thanks, Zabini. Look after him for me?"

"I always will." Blaise smiles into the mobile. "See you in the morning, guv." He rings off. He’s not sure he believes what he just said, but he has to hope things will sort themselves. Eventually.

And if they don’t, we’ll he’s sure they’ll be distracted by some new emergency. There’s nothing else to be done right now.

With a sigh, Blaise drains his glass and sets it down in the sink, wiping his mouth. Rodolphus Lestrange can burn in goddamned hell for all of this. He stares out his kitchen window, at the darkness broken by the glimmer of other lights from other flats around his building, and he thinks about Pansy in Camden, Potter in Islington, Whitaker in Stepney Green, all of them scattered across the city. Even alone, they're all together, he thinks, the whole lot of them. Seven-Four-Alpha's not just a team any more. It's become a family. Fucked-up, sure, but what family isn't? In the end they'd all go to the mat for each other. 

For Draco. He's still one of theirs. He always will be.

Sod it, Blaise thinks, reaching for the kettle. He'll tuck Draco into bed with a cup of tea and a bloody sleeping potion before he goes for a hot shower of his own, and maybe a good wank along with it. 

Everything else can bloody well wait until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> I should be posting more regularly through December. The next scheduled installment is December 17. (Oh yeah, baby. We're catching up now.) Stay tuned!
> 
> If you have a chance you might browse the [hd-erised collection tag here on ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hd_erised_2017) or go over to LJ for the true experience--there's some great stuff up already. Cissa's also modding slythindor100, and their advent challenge is up [here](https://slythindor100.livejournal.com) at LJ. (I promise to write next year, Cissa! It's only taken me...five years?)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jake helps advise Harry, Althea asks a favour of Pansy, and Blaise has a an unexpected conversation--well, two unexpected conversations, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter warnings for mentions of past abusive relationship.**
> 
>  
> 
> Happy sixth night of Hanukkah!!! Here it is! Your next, weekly installment. It's wonderful to be back with Seven-Four-Alpha and things are most definitely heating up. 
> 
> A million thanks to everyone who is reading, despite all the Erised enticements. Noe and I were just given [lovely art](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/168658282449/femmequixotic-hd-erised-title-caffeine) and we heartily encourage you to go take a look--while it's not SB, it's clearly SB informed and has Danny Schwarz!Harry and Paul Boche!Draco. Completely gorgeous!
> 
> Tons of love to cissa for beta reading, to noe for helping smooth plot, and to chibi and bixie for cheerleading and their general AWESOMENESS.

Jake's early to work on Wednesday morning. It's warm again when he leaves his hotel, although pleasantly so. To be honest, he's glad to be out of New York right now; August is always the worst: hot and muggy and smelling of rotten garbage and piss. London isn't much better in the latter regard--cities always have a very distinctly human scent, Jake's found--but as much as the Brits are complaining about the heat, it's a hell of a lot cooler here than it'd be back home. Thank fuck for a moderate climate, Jake thinks as he strolls past Westminster Abbey, a milky iced coffee in one hand, his jacket draped over his arm. 

His mind drifts back to last night, to the way Blaise's body had felt against his, to the heat of Blaise’s skin, the solidity of Blaise’s muscles, the quiet gasps and moans Blaise had made as Jake pushed deeper into him, his own body arched against the curve of Blaise’s back. Even all these hours later, it makes Jake's body thrum with excitement. He hadn't meant to end up on Blaise's doorstep. Not really. But Jake also hadn't wanted to be alone last night, hadn't been able to sit silently in his hotel room with thoughts of Eddie swirling about in his head. Jake's fucking worried about his goddamn brother, and he doesn't know what to do, how to help Eddie. It makes him feel useless, and Jake's never been good at that. So he'd gone to Blaise, a bottle of wine in one hand that he'd picked up at the Oddbins down the street from his hotel and a hell of a lot of hope in his heart that Blaise would take him in, help him to forget that tight ball of fear in the pit of his belly for a few hours. 

Blaise had. And if Malfoy hadn't tumbled out of Blaise's Floo, looking as wrecked as a kitten in a rainstorm, Jake thinks Blaise might have let him stay the night, their sated bodies wrapped around each other.

Then again, he might have also tossed Jake out on his ear again. You never could tell with Veela blood, Jake thinks as he makes his way into the Ministry. To be honest, Jake doesn't really know where he stands with Blaise right now. They're fantastic in bed together; he knows that much, but Blaise is getting careful with what he lets Jake see when they're together, and Jake tries his best not to pry. And, really, he's not certain what he wants himself from Blaise. Sex, sure. Fucking Blaise is even better than the early days had been with Harry, when the two of them had made use of every surface they could. Twice nightly sometimes. But this? Goddamn but Jake's never had a refractory period like this with anyone else. He's fucking thirty-two years old for Christ's sake, and his body's acting like he's seventeen. But there's something about the way Blaise's skin smells, the way his body feels beneath Jake's hands that makes Jake's dick jump to attention like no one else has ever been able to do. And when he's lying there beside Blaise, spent and gasping, Jake can't help but think maybe--just maybe--he's found his way home. 

And that scares the goddamn shit out of him, when he thinks about it. 

So Jake doesn't. If there's one thing the Durant men are fucking good at, it's ignoring anything that makes them slightest bit uncomfortable. Jake had learned that life lesson sitting at his daddy's knee. Jasper Durant had spent most of his life pretending he could actually force his life into something tolerable, and in the process he'd destroyed his whole goddamn family. 

But his daddy's a more sobering thought, another one Jake would rather avoid. He steps onto the elevator, presses the button for Level Two. It's early enough that it's just him and a distracted witch in the cage; she's frowning into a notepad filled with precise, neat scrawls. Jake stares at himself in the reflection of the elevator doors. His hair's a bit rumpled, his shirt's a bit wrinkled. He tries to smooth it out, but he catches sight of a love bite just beneath his left ear, purpled and florid. Fuck it. He'd thought he'd caught them all before he'd left the hotel this morning. No wonder the barista had been so flirty when he'd handed over his bank notes to pay for the latte.

The doors open on Level Five; the witch walks out, not even once looking up at him, and Jake's left alone. The elevator jerks to a start again, and Jake's stomach flips ever so slightly. He's never liked the Ministry elevators. Lifts. Whatever. They're not as smooth as the ones in the Woolworth Building; the magic's a bit more wonky. Hermione says it gives them character, but Jake's waiting for the day the charm stops working and he plummets down to the Wizengamot courtrooms. 

When the doors ding open again, Jake steps out, heading for the tall double doors that open up into the Auror Headquarters. The bullpen's virtually empty at this hour. Jake knows full well that the morning shift Aurors will trickle in at the last moment possible. Same thing happens back at MACUSA, not that he blames any of them. It's hard to want to be early to work when you know the likelihood is that you'll be staying late to wrap up paperwork or follow a lead up on a case. Still, he waves at Barlow, sitting over in the corner and looking glum as balls to be here, Jake thinks. He counts it a success when Barlow nods and grunts, "Durant" his way. 

"Morning, Viola," Jake says as he passes the Head Auror's assistant on her way back to her desk, a tea mug cupped between her hands. There's a bright pink lipstick stain on the white pottery rim already. 

"Look at you, here early," Viola says, and she covers a yawn. Jake doesn't bother to point out he's only a quarter-hour ahead of the others. It's August in London, and everyone's moving a little slower than usual. 

"How many more days until your holiday?" Jake holds the door open for her, and she steps through.

Viola frowns. "Three days unless something awful happens. Which it better not; I've paid in full for a self-catering cottage up in the Cotswolds, and I will bloody well eviscerate any Auror who keeps me from it." Her scowl deepens. "Gawain included."

Jake laughs and sucks a bit of coffee through the straw in his cup. "I hope you've warned him."

"More than once," Viola says, and she winks at him as he walks on by. 

The incident room's empty when he gets there, which is fine by Jake. He feels a bit awkward, coming back on to Seven-Four-Alpha like this. Honestly, he'd rather have stayed with the Dementors and Dee. Being on the same case with Blaise makes things weird and uncertain, particularly when you complicate the mix with Harry and Malfoy. Jake's starting to understand why office romances are frowned upon by human resources, even back in New York. It doesn't allow anything between any of them to be easy and uncomplicated, all things considered. 

Jake drops into one of the empty desks, stretching out and lifting his latte to his mouth. He enjoys the quiet of the room for now, letting the calm silence wash over him. It's the last he'll get for the rest of the day, he's certain. Even if he's sitting here, quietly doing paperwork, once the others come in, the feeling off the room's going to change. Shift with the energy of the others, be filled with the unspoken chatter of their thoughts and feelings. His mother had told him once that he took too much on, that he involved himself in other people's lives more than he should. She hadn't been wrong, not really. It's part of the danger of being a Legilimens, that swell of empathy that comes as your talent grows, deepens. It'll hit Malfoy soon enough, Jake thinks, and he wonders how Malfoy will deal with it. That first rush is almost addictive, but Jake knows from experience that it can overwhelm you, pull you under. He's had to learn to separate himself a bit, to keep people at bay just enough so that he's not dragged into those rushes of emotion. 

He doesn't know why that doesn't seem to be working with Blaise. Jake glances over towards the desk Blaise prefers. There's a stack of papers piled high on one side, a bit messily. Jake can almost feel the familiar throb of Blaise's presence, almost as if he can sense Blaise sitting across the room from him right now. A shiver goes through him, that warm rush of desire floods his body again. 

There's a sound from the hallway, and Jake just has time to sit up, set his coffee on the desk in front of him when the door swings open. 

"Really, Harry," Hermione's saying as she walks in, "Malfoy's just setting boundaries, and I think that's healthy. It's not as if he's leaving you. It was one night--"

"But I don't know what to do." Harry comes in after her. "I can't stop being worried for him--" Harry breaks off when he sees Jake sitting there; his face floods with colour. "Oh," he says. "I didn't realise…" Harry trails into a sigh, runs his hand through his hair as he looks away.

Even Hermione looks a bit embarrassed. "Sorry, Jake," she says, as she sets a stack of file jackets down on one of the other desks. "Didn't realise you'd be early."

"Not a problem." Jake hesitates, twists his coffee cup across the desk, leaving behind rings of condensation. It feels strange to be on this end of the conversation, to be the one that Hermione and Harry are so careful about. He clears his throat, then says, "I could leave."

"Don't be ridiculous." Hermione's already shuffling through the file jackets. She looks cool and neat in a pair of white cropped pants and a sleeveless teal shirt that shows off her strong biceps. A thin, bright teal and yellow and white scarf's knotted around her head, pulling her hair back off her face. "It's nothing important."

But Jake thinks it is. He remembers the look on Malfoy's face last night, tight and angry and hurt, and he glances back over at Harry. "You can't save him, you know."

Harry doesn't say anything for a moment, and Jake thinks maybe he's pissed Harry off. It wouldn't be the first time, really, and Jake doesn't look away from Harry. Might as well be all in if he's going to have to face down Harry's temper. 

Except Harry doesn't shout. Or combust anything. It's almost worse, actually, when Harry's shoulders slump and he leans against the corner of a desk, his arms folded over his chest. "I know," he says finally. "But it doesn't mean I can't want to."

"Yeah." Jake eyes Harry, takes in the hair that needs washing, the unshaven stubble across his jaw. He'd bet Harry'd stayed up half the night drinking. His clothes are wrinkled, and he's wearing trainers instead of his favourite worn-in boots. "Did you sleep at all?"

Harry just shrugs, which Jake knows means he hasn't.

"Goddamn it, Harry," Jake says with a sigh. "You know you're impossible when you don't get enough sleep."

"Hard to sleep with him gone." And the way Harry's voice breaks a bit on the words makes Jake feel sorry for him. The last goddamn thing Jake wants is to feel fucking sorry for Harry in any fashion.

And yet, he does. 

Jake sighs. "He was with Blaise." At that, both Harry and Hermione's heads turn towards Jake, eyeing him, Harry with understanding, Hermione with confusion. Jake shifts in his chair. Fuck, but he doesn't want to admit this, doesn't want to make it known what's going on between him and Blaise, but he knows when Harry and Malfoy get their shit together and make up from whatever stupid spat they're having, Malfoy won't keep his secret. Why should he? Jake sure as hell wouldn't. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers dipping beneath his collar. "I was over there when Malfoy showed up. He looked pretty wrecked."

Harry doesn't say anything; he just watches Jake through narrowed eyes. It's Hermione who says, carefully, "You were at Zabini's flat."

"It's where we fuck, yeah." Jake knows he's being crude--not to mention rude--but he just doesn't want to tiptoe around it all, despite Hermione's flinch. "And Malfoy showed up, pretty pissed off about Harry being high-handed." He looks over at Harry. "You know you do that sometimes."

"I know," Harry says, and that surprises Jake. He thought he'd have more of a fight on his hands. But Harry seems a bit chagrined, and Jake doesn't know what to do with that, not really. 

So Jake shrugs and leans back in his chair. "Then stop being a goddamn prick. You're worried about him, sure, but Malfoy's a grown-ass man, Harry, and whether or not you like it, he managed to deal with his prick of an uncle on his own. He's not in need of rescuing, so you can put aside all that fucking armour you've been shining up." He knows he's struck a nerve when Harry looks away. Good, Jake thinks. Harry can be a real ass about things like this, and in Jake's opinion, Hermione and Ron ought to have shut this down a hell of while ago. Fuck knows Jake's fond of them both, but they have the tendency to indulge some of Harry's less attractive tendencies when what Harry really needs is a goddamn trip to the woodshed. 

"I'm not trying to," Harry starts to say, and then he stops, breathes out. He's scowling down at his hands. "Look," Harry tries after a moment, "I know Draco can take care of himself--"

"But do you?" Jake can't help the sceptical look he turns on Harry. He knows damn well Harry can convince himself he's acting in someone's best interests when it's really just all about him. They'd had arguments themselves about this sort of bullshit, and sometimes Jake's surprised that he and Harry lasted two years, until he remembers how good things had been with Harry in Luxembourg, how many nights they'd stayed up late over a bottle of wine, laughing and talking about their lives. Jake knows Harry better than most, whether or not Harry wants to admit it. He sighs, then glances over at Hermione. "Give us a moment?" he asks, and he knows she can hear the regret in his voice. 

Hermione hesitates, her gaze flicking towards Harry, before she nods. "I suppose I could use a cuppa," she says carefully, and she rests her hand lightly on Harry's arm as she passes him. "Want one?"

Jake thinks Harry's going to snap at her, but instead Harry just shrugs, his shoulders hunched a bit. "I could use a builder's." 

"I'm good," Jake says, raising his iced coffee when Hermione glances at him. He waits until she leaves, the door snicking shut behind her, and then he looks over at Harry. "You're being a jackass, you know," Jake says quietly. 

Harry doesn't answer for a moment. He pleats the cotton of his dress shirt between his fingers, wrinkling it even more. There's still the faint whiff of firewhisky to his breath when he sighs, looking away. Jake wonders how many phials of sobering potion Harry took this morning. "I'm not an idiot," Harry says finally. 

"Didn't say you were." Jake watches Harry, takes in the furrows creasing his forehead, the deep unhappiness pulling down the corners of his mouth. "But Malfoy's complicated."

"I think I know my own boyfriend," Harry says, and there's the curl of temper, Jake thinks. He doesn't look away from Harry. Harry huffs a breath, glares down at his folded arms. "Just don't get involved in this, Jake. It's none of your damned business anyway."

And he has a point, really. Jake knows that. There's no reason for him to push this. Except… Jake chews on his lip for a moment, then leans forward, his elbows on the desk. "Look, asshole. You're happy with Malfoy. Even I can see that, as much as it stings sometimes." And at that, Harry looks away again. Jake can feel Harry's embarrassment rolling off of him, mixed with a tinge of remorse. It's strange, Jake thinks. He's always been able to read Harry, to know what he's thinking. Even when he hadn't wanted to know. Even in those last few weeks they'd spent together in New York, when Jake had pushed away the worries, the knowledge that Harry was a thousand miles away from him. Or thirty-five hundred, to be exact, lost in thoughts of Malfoy, even if Jake hadn't known that then. Jake rubs his face, a deep sadness settling over his shoulders. Sometimes he misses those days, back when it'd just been him and Harry. When it was good, it'd been really good, and as much as Jake wants to hate Harry, he can't. Other exes, maybe. But never Harry. 

An uneasy silence stretches between them. This is part of why Jake hadn't wanted to come back to London. There's so much still unspoken between him and Harry, and Jake wonders if some of that might be what's holding him back from Blaise. Harry goddamn broke his heart, wounded his pride, and Jake's not certain he can go through that again. It's easier to tell himself that whatever this is between him and Blaise is nothing more than sex. Jake can be okay with that, he thinks. But he's not certain he can put himself out there again for anything more than that. If Blaise broke his heart, well, Jake's not certain he could put those shards back together. Not so soon after patching up what Harry's done to it.

"I'm sorry," Harry says finally. "I know Draco and I…" Harry trails off again, runs a hand through his hair, pushes it back off his forehead, and it's a motion Jake knows so goddamn well that a pang of grief shoots through him. Jake looks down at the desk in front of him, blankly staring at the scarred ridges in the wood. Harry drops his hand, his glasses are a bit askew. It's a look that Jake would have mocked him for a few months ago, before reaching in and straightening them, then letting his thumb brush Harry's soft mouth as he leaned in to kiss him. 

Jake hides the pang of melancholy by reaching for his coffee, taking a long sip of the milky bittersweetness. He doesn't want to be in this room with his ex, working a case together. He wants to be back home in his office at MACUSA trying to get over not one but two goddamn Brits. Instead, he sets his cup back down and looks over at Harry. "You can't protect him all the time, Harry. That's just going to piss Malfoy off, and frankly, I wouldn't blame him for that. He's a goddamn trained Auror, for fuck's sake. An Unspeakable, even. It's not as if he's some sort of weak-ass civilian who wouldn't know what to do in a situation like yesterday's. He managed it, and he even got information for us--"

"From your idiot brother!" Harry's voice rings out through the room; one of Hermione's file jackets starts to smoke at the edges, and Harry scowls at it, pushing himself off the corner of the desk to stride over and slap his hand over the pale yellow jacket. He stands there, breathing out, his shoulders taut and tense. "Sorry," he says after a moment, but he doesn't look back at Jake. 

"Eddie's an idiot," Jake says, and it's hard to get the words out. His throat feels thick and raw, and he has to look away when Harry turns around. "The fuckwit picks this moment to get all fucking self-sacrificial? I'd rather him go back to his usual shady shit."

Harry snorts, but when he walks back towards Jake, his face is soft. "How do you do it?" he asks after a moment. "Just let Eddie do whatever the fuck he's going to do?"

Jake's quiet for a moment, and then he shrugs. "I don't have a choice, do I? It's like you with Malfoy, man. We can't force either of them into what we want them to do. Eddie's going to be a fuck-up, but at least this time…" Jake looks away, runs fingers over his mouth. He thinks of his brother, trapped in whatever web Rodolphus Lestrange is weaving. "He's trying to do what's right. Sure, it scares the fuck out of me." Jake's stomach twists, that familiar curl of anxiety about Eddie swirling through him again, same as it has since he was a kid. "But I can't force him not to because I'm worried he'll get hurt along the way." And Eddie wouldn't let him. Jake knows that. Lazy though his brother might be, Eddie's still a singularly determined asshole when he wants to be. 

"Yeah," Harry says, and he rubs his thumb along the angle of his jaw. "Maybe you're right."

"I know I am." Jake watches Harry, feels a pang of sympathy for the bastard. He knows Harry's worried about Malfoy, and maybe that hurts Jake's pride a bit, but it's not like Jake doesn't understand. He wonders how he'd feel if it'd been Blaise who'd been taken yesterday; he thinks he'd be a bit less sanguine about it all, if he's honest. Jake draws in a deep breath, exhales slowly. "You need to give him space, Harry," Jake says, his voice quiet. "All you're going to do otherwise is push him away."

Harry looks away, nods, his jaw tightening. "I know," he whispers, and Jake can hear the pent-up emotion in those two simple words. He and Harry never had a chance, Jake realises. Not once Malfoy came into the picture. Harry and Malfoy, they have something deeply intense between the two of them, something Jake envies. There was a time when he would have given the world to have Harry look at him the way he looks at Malfoy now. Jake can't help but be a little jealous. Not over Harry, though, he realises, but rather over that feeling, that wish to belong so completely and fully to someone else, the way Harry does to Malfoy. 

Jake jumps when the door opens and Parkinson comes in, followed closely by Whitaker. The two of them have their heads together, and Whitaker's murmuring something in Parkinson's ear. She nods, then looks over at Harry and says, "Good morning, guv," a bit too brightly. She must not know about Malfoy then, Jake thinks, or her greeting would have been a hell of a lot cooler. Jake's learned that by now; the Slytherins' loyalty is to themselves first, Harry second. Jake's not sure where he or Whitaker fit into that scale yet. Probably close to the bottom, if he's honest. 

Harry's already moving to the whiteboard. "Anything interesting to report?" he asks, and Whitaker and Parkinson share a look. 

"Not a lot," Whitaker says, as the door opens again. Blaise comes in first, and Jake's heart stutters uncomfortably in his chest. He picks up his coffee and drinks it, trying to look as if he doesn't care. Fuck but he hasn't felt so goddamn ridiculous since he was a teenager back in Louisiana. Malfoy comes in after Blaise, the bruises on his face only just beginning to fade, although the scabbing on his lip is gone now, and it irritates Jake how protective Blaise is of Malfoy, standing between him and Harry like he's some fucking defender of Malfoy's honour. It obviously pisses Harry off, too, judging by the way his mouth tightens when he looks their way. 

Whitaker hesitates, glancing between them. 

"Go on," Harry says. He picks up the whiteboard quill, running it between his fingers. He's not looking at Malfoy, Jake notices, and he wants to hit Harry upside the head. Merlin, he can be a self-righteous little shit sometimes. 

"Right," Whitaker says as Malfoy takes the desk farthest away from Harry, one which puts him right beside Jake. He doesn't look at anyone; he's quiet and withdrawn. Malfoy doesn't even look up when Hermione comes back in, two cups of tea in her hands. She walks over to Harry and hands him one. Whitaker clears her throat. "The Unspeakables have found at least ten of those gargoyles throughout the city so far. Most of them only have observation charms on them, but a couple appear to have Portkey-like charms attached. Probably like the original one, they can be used to key into other safehouses." 

Hermione nods. "We're sending teams in this morning to those."

That makes Harry frown, his cup of milky tea lifted halfway to his lips. "Any chance Lestrange and his lot might be at one of those safehouses?"

"Not likely," Parkinson says. "The Unspeakables tested signs of life yesterday afternoon in most of them and came up empty. Besides, Lestrange left Draco's wand in the Manchester bolthole--"

"Or Eddie," Jake points out, and Parkinson nods.

"Right," she says. "But the way the rest of the place was cleaned down? I think Lestrange must have known it was left there. He expected us to find it, so I doubt he'd hide away at any of the others. He'd have to know we'd track down the others."

Harry takes a sip of tea, then says, "Well, Lestrange _is_ off his nut, so maybe he's not thinking--"

"He wouldn't." Malfoy's voice is soft, but it has an edge to it. "Uncle Roddy may be mad as the proverbial hatter, but he's not stupid, and we'd be foolish to assume he is." He glances over at Harry then, his hair falling over one cheek, and the look Harry gives him back almost lances Jake's heart. He turns his head, a sudden wave of envy nearly taking away his breath; his gaze meets Blaise's, holds it for a second, a warmth suffusing Jake's cheeks. He wonders if any of this will get easier. 

"Where is he then?" Harry asks. He's not looking away from Malfoy. "Any family hideouts tucked away?" His voice is light, but Jake knows the question's serious. So does Malfoy.

"Perhaps Father might have known." Malfoy shrugs. "But there aren't any I'm aware of, outside of the Wiltshire property itself. He'd be a damned idiot to go to the Manor, even if Mother's not in residence right now. The house elves are loyal to us; they'd have raised an alarm by now if he was there."

"We've already checked the Manor out," Hermione says, taking a seat at the desk she'd spread the file jackets across. "Nothing there, and I've assigned a team to stake it out, just in case. Like Malfoy said, I can't imagine he'd be stupid enough go there, though."

Whitaker sits forward. "Haven't the Lestranges themselves property? Maybe he's at one of those?"

But Malfoy's already shaking his head. "The Ministry claimed all of those after Uncle Roddy was thrown in Azkaban. They cleaned them out and put monitoring charms on them. If he was at one of those, it'd have triggered in our systems by now." He drums his fingers against the desk, thinking. "I can make a list of known friends of the family. Maybe one of them's been stupid enough to provide assistance." He frowns. "I doubt it, seeing as how anyone who's ever associated with Death Eaters is starting to draw notice from certain quarters, but still. We can check."

"Make a list then," Harry says, and Malfoy nods. Harry drinks a bit more of his tea before setting it aside, and looking back at the whiteboard. "So what we've got is a stolen grimoire, the Hallows symbol carved into stone--"

"The Robichau family crest, you mean," Jake says, half under his breath, and Harry looks back at him. 

"Any idea what Eddie meant by that?" Harry points towards the photo of the carving, the lines cut deep into the stone, shadows flickering across the dirty floor of the Gringotts vault, the sweep of a robe coming into the top left corner over and over and over again. "He obviously thought it'd mean something to you."

Jake frowns. This has been bothering him since last Friday. "No," he says, perhaps a bit too sharply. "And I've been racking my brain for anything I might know about my mama's family. Whatever Eddie's trying to tell me there…" He shakes his head. "For the first time in his goddamn life he's being too subtle."

Harry sighs, unhappily. "Right. So our only other real clue is the account number Eddie left with Draco yesterday." He doesn't look at Malfoy. "Zabini, any leads?"

"One, but I don't know where it'll get us," Blaise says. His gaze settles on Jake for a moment, and when Blaise's tongue flicks across the corner of his mouth, Jake knows he's thinking about last night, about what Jake had felt like inside of him. Jake can feel the faint swell of Blaise's arousal, and it tweaks his own, makes him shift in his chair, thinking about Blaise's request the night before, his curiosity about what it would be like to be inside Jake's body. And fuck, but Jake wants that too. It's not as if he hasn't bottomed ever. It's not his favourite, but he'd done it for Harry from time to time, and for a few one night stands who'd been into it. The image of Blaise rearing up over him fills his mind, nearly taking away Jake's breath. He has to look away. 

"Blaise," Malfoy says sharply, pulling Jake back to the present. 

Harry rolls his eyes and turns back to the whiteboard. "Give me something we can work with, Zabini."

"Right," Blaise says, a bit distantly. "So the account's a hedge fund, one of those Muggle ones that's far too complex to even begin to describe. I haven't been able to track it completely, but as far as I can tell, I think it's part of a money laundering process. It'd make sense, really. As much as Lestrange might hate Muggles, if he's running money through them, it would be almost impossible for us to track it out of any wizarding bank. My theory is that it's been bouncing around Europe, then into this hedge fund, which could have been set up to dump money into both legitimate and illegal enterprises. It's fucking complicated, but it would have worked."

Hermione drums her fingers against her file jackets. "It would definitely keep it below our radar." She frowns. "So who owns the hedge fund?"

"That's the thing." Blaise hesitates, huffs an annoyed sigh. "I have a company name--Wilton Hansford Securities, but that's it. No address, no contact info. It's as if they don't exist in the Muggle world--or at least my contacts at Gringotts can't find them."

A silence falls across the room until Harry breaks it with a muttered _fuck._ They all turn towards him. Harry's running a hand through his hair; he looks discomfited. "Just give me whatever information you have on it. My cousin works for Hargreaves Lansdown--" He stops at the blank stares he's getting; even Jake has no idea what Harry's talking about. "It's a Muggle stockbrokers. Dudley's been with them for two years or something like that now. I'd rather not get him involved in any of this, but if needs must…" 

"You've a cousin who's a stockbroker?" Malfoy asks, obviously flabbergasted, and Harry's face flushes. 

"I'll ring him up," Harry says, avoiding Malfoy's question. "Maybe he can find something out on the Muggle end. If it exists, Hargreaves Lansdown will have a record of it, I can guarantee that."

Blaise scrawls something on a sheet of parchment and sends it fluttering towards Harry. "All I have, guv."

"Thanks." Harry catches it, frowns down at the parchment, then tucks it away. "I'll take that on. Hermione, will you and Zabini work on the grimoire today? Anything we can nail down about it would be brilliant."

"Sure." Hermione pulls out a few file jackets from her stack. "We can start with these."

Harry turns to Jake. "Jake, you and Whitaker can work on the Hallows connection to the Robichau family. If there's anything there, I want to know. Eddie didn't just doodle it there for no reason."

Jake nods. He doesn't mind Harry like this, handing out orders. It's reassuring in an odd way; it means Harry hasn't entirely lost himself to his worry over Malfoy, and that's a relief. Jake glances over at Whitaker. "Want to pick my brain?"

Whitaker gives him a lazy smile. "Whatever gets you going, Durant."

"Oh, for the love Circe's tits," Blaise mutters and rolls his eyes. 

"Yes," Malfoy drawls, "because Blaise is a much better judge of that than you'd ever be, Althea." 

Whitaker flips two fingers his way, but she's laughing. "Probably not half-wrong, Malfoy."

Parkinson just holds up her hands. "This isn't exactly something I want to think about, thanks ever so, you arseholes. It's bad enough I know about Draco and the guv. I've no interest in knowing what Blaise and Durant are getting up to in their spare time." She frowns at Blaise, and Jake can tell she's a bit upset, even if she's hiding it well. That surprises Jake. He'd thought they'd all figured it out. "Despite them bloody well knowing better."

"Sod off, the lot of you." The half-smile Blaise gives Parkinson is fond, though, even as he turns an apologetic look on Jake. "Sorry."

Hermione sighs. "One day," she says, half under her breath, "I'll work with a team that isn't utterly unprofessional…" Still, there's a small curve to her lips that makes Jake think she doesn't hate it, not really. He raises an eyebrow at her, and her smile widens an infinitesimal bit. 

And really, Jake thinks, he doesn't mind the teasing so much. Not when he catches Blaise's eye, sees the softness in his gaze. 

Harry clears his throat. "If we could get back to work," he says, pointing back to the whiteboard. "We do have a fucking Death Eater to catch." He turns to Parkinson. "You and I are going back in to push on Dolohov again."

"We won't get anything from him," Parkinson says. The mood in the room sobers. 

"Probably not," Harry says, "but we have to try." He looks at Malfoy. "I need you to go through your statements again about yesterday. See if there's anything you remember that might stand out." His voice is gentle. "However small it might be."

For a moment, Jake thinks Malfoy's going to protest, but instead he nods. Sinks back into his seat. The two of them, Harry and Malfoy, just look at each other, as if they're the only ones in the room. It's far too intimate, Jake thinks, feeling as if he should turn away. 

"Right," Harry says after a moment. He pulls his gaze from Malfoy. "Let's get to work. This bastard's been on the run for nearly a month now, and I'm bloody fucking tired of chasing him down." He touches the hilt of his wand, tucked away in the holster hanging from his belt. "Do whatever you need to do. However you need to do it. I just want some answers on my desk by the end of the day. Understood?"

"Yes, guv," Whitaker says, and Parkinson nods. Hermione looks a bit uncomfortable, but she doesn't object either. 

Harry claps his hands. "Get on it then."

There's a scrape of chairs, the rustle of papers being picked up. And then Blaise is beside Jake, his fingers brushing Jake's arm. "Last night," Blaise says softly, and Jake looks over at him. "It was bloody brilliant."

Jake's looks towards Parkinson, who's watching them through narrowed eyes. "Yeah," he says. "It was." He hesitates. "She didn't know about us." He stops, then says, "Or about last night." Or the weekend, Jake suspects.

Blaise follows his gaze. "Yeah." He chews his bottom lip. "I was going to tell her today. I didn't realise Draco was going to…" He frowns, gestures. "You know."

"Yeah." Jake's silent for a moment. This is all too goddamn complicated sometimes. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. But he can feel the warmth from Blaise's body, can smell the spicy-sweetness of his scent. He takes in the smooth brown skin of Blaise's face, the elegant symmetry of his features, the dark fuzz of his close-cropped hair. Blaise is fucking beautiful. Jake can see the Veela in Blaise's high cheekbones, the brightness of his brown eyes, can feel it in the heated look Blaise is giving him, as if Jake is _his._ And Jake wants to be. Something in him is crying out for Blaise Zabini, needs him desperately, every single bit of him. Jake wants Blaise to possess him, to take him, to bury himself balls deep in Jake's body--

"Oh." Blaise breathes out, and Jake realises he's let Blaise see that image, to know how badly Jake wants to be spread out beneath him. 

Jake looks away, his face heating. "You shouldn't have put the idea in my head," he says a little gruffly. "Maybe." 

They just look at each other, and Jake wishes they were alone, wishes he could pull Blaise against him, wishes he could lose himself in Blaise's kiss. He's never wanted anyone the way he wants Blaise, and it fucking terrifies him. 

"Durant," Whitaker says from behind Blaise, and Jake finally tears his gaze from Blaise's face. Whitaker shifts from one foot to the other. "We should…" She trails off, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 

"Yeah." Jake's voice is hoarse. "Right." He rubs the back of his neck. "Look, the best way to do this is probably to Pensieve the things I remember my mama saying about her family. Sort through some of it that way. Sound good?" 

Whitaker crosses her arms in front of her chest. Her gaze slides towards Blaise, who's stepping away, moving towards Hermione. "Whatever you want."

Blaise looks back at Jake, and a flutter of something twists through Jake's belly, warm and unexpected. That's what he wants, Jake thinks. Blaise fucking Zabini. The thought of it makes him turn away, suddenly flustered and unsettled, Whitaker's knowing look fixed on him. 

Jake wants to run away, to hurry out of the room and find a place where he can be alone and breathe, pushing away these feelings that are curling up inside of him, terrifyingly sharp and alive, pulsating so deeply inside of him. 

Whitaker says something, and he looks at her blankly. "What?" he asks after a moment, and she just gives him a sideways smile, rueful and perceptive. 

"Slytherins," she says, as they walk towards the door. "The fuckers get under your skin, don't they?" Her gaze drifts back towards Parkinson, and Jake thinks maybe he gets it. At least a little. Whitaker's shoulder nudges his. "You'll survive." She's still looking back at Parkinson. "Maybe?" Her voice rises a bit at the end, her doubt coming through loud and clear, as they step into the hallway.

Jake suspects he understands a little too well.

***

"Well," Pansy says as the interview room door closes behind her, "that could have bloody well gone better."

Potter looks over at her, his face mirroring her own exhaustion. "I don't know. You're not half-bad in there, Parks."

"I'm no Althea," Pansy says, but she's pleasantly pleased by the guv's praise. And the new nickname, if she's honest. She brushes her hair back behind one ear, the file jacket on Dolohov tucked beneath her other arm. "We could have had more from him if she'd taken point."

The guv follows her down the hall. "Yeah, well, I don't want him getting too used to seeing her walking in that door." He hesitates, then says, carefully. "It's hard for her, taking him on, isn't it? What with her mum and everything."

Pansy doesn't answer at first. She doesn't want to break any confidences, especially not after last night. She'd been half-pissed--well, more, really, but she doesn't want to admit that, not even to herself--and Merlin only knows exactly what she'd said after a certain point. She does know that Althea had helped her get home and into bed, and she has a vague memory of throwing her bra Althea's way. She thinks that was after she had her t-shirt on, but Pansy isn't certain. It's entirely possible she flashed her tits Althea's way, but if she had, then Althea'd had the grace this morning not to bring it up when they'd stumbled into each other in the Atrium and made their way up to the incident room. She sighs, looks over at Potter. "I think she has a hard time with it, but she's a proper copper. She knows her duty."

"Yeah." Potter opens the door for her; the Unspeakable on the other side frowns as they flash their warrant cards, then lets them pass. Pansy'll never get used to the Department of Mysteries, no matter how many times she's down here. It's creepy, she thinks, with its black tiled walls and marble floors. She rubs her bare arms. And it's bloody cold. Another Unspeakable's at the end of the corridor; she holds the door open, nods as they step out into the lobby. The door clangs shut behind them; Pansy can hear the clicks and thuds of the lock mechanisms settling. Evidently wards aren't enough for the Unspeakables. 

Potter starts up the steps to the Atrium; Pansy wishes he'd just take the lift all the way. Her heels are killing her already. They're terribly old and the Cushioning Charms need renewing every hour or two, but Pansy can't bear to throw them out. She likes how strappy and slick the black patent leather is; Draco likes to call them her dominatrix shoes, and really, he's not wrong. She does feel as if she could snap a flog at someone whenever she's wearing them, and make them rather like it. 

"So," Pansy says as they turn at the landing, starting up the final flight of stone steps, "you and Draco. Having a row, are you?"

"Not really," the guv says, but his fingers tighten on the file jacket in his hand, and she knows he's lying. "We're fine."

Pansy thinks about pushing it a bit further, but then she takes a look at the set of Potter's jaw and decides it's not worth it. Whatever's going on between the two of them will settle soon enough. Besides, Draco'll only bitch at her if she gets involved, and Pansy hasn't the temper for that lately. She doesn't want to tell her best friend to chuck himself in the Thames, so it's best she stays out of it for now. She's quiet until they walk across the Atrium and the guv pushes the button for the lift. It's mid-morning and no one's about--they're all chained at their desks, poor things--so it comes quickly. When they step inside, they're alone. Pansy looks over at Potter and says, "Do you think he'll ever crack?"

"Dolohov?" The guv glances at her, then shrugs. "Maybe. It's not about getting any big revelation from him now. He's not going to give us that, he's made that bloody clear. Whether it's loyalty to Lestrange or fear, I've no bloody idea, but I'm hoping even something small can give us a bit of a break."

That seems logical to Pansy. She watches the buttons on the side of the lift light up as they pass each floor. "And today's interview?" They hadn't had much from the bastard, at least as far as Pansy could tell. Then again, her skills lie more in the lab than in the interview room. Potter, on the other hand, was rather brilliant. Utterly unflappable, really, which surprised Pansy. She'd expected him to be a lot more furious than he'd been.

Potter sighs. He looks tired, the skin beneath his eyes smudged purplish, and she suspects he'd overindulged in drink himself last night judging by the way his skin's a bit dull and peaked. "The more we push him, the more chances we have that he'll let something slip. Maybe today was a wash, but the next time…" He shrugs, watching himself in the elevator doors. "Who knows?"

The doors slide open. "Level Three," a modulated woman's voice says. 

Pansy moves forward. "This is me then." She catches the door before it closes, then looks back at the guv. "Meeting later this afternoon?"

"Down the Leaky," Potter says. "Half-five? I'll buy the first round."

"You're on." Pansy smiles as she steps out of the lift. "Have me a red wine waiting--but let Draco pick it out. You're absolute shit at choosing a good year." She lets the doors close before Potter can protest. 

By the time Pansy makes it to her lab, she's already created a mental checklist of everything she needs to do for the day. First on the list is finishing up those bloody gargoyle charms. Whilst she's sure the Unspeakables have done a decent job of cracking them, she still wants to run them through her database of known charms, just to see if there are any fragmentary charm blocks they've overlooked. Pansy knows enough about practitioners of the Dark Arts to know the twats like to interlace charms, sometimes so seamlessly that the base charm disappears beneath layers of secondary charms. She's hoping she can reverse engineer the charm to help her fashion another locator spell, one that's a bit more precise than the Unspeakables'. Pansy'd never say it to Granger's face, but she thinks the lab techs down in Mysteries are a bit shoddy. Or lazy at the very least. The data they'd shared with her yesterday had been slapdash, in Pansy's opinion. She's no intention of taking it at face value, not without a great deal of testing on her end.

She reaches for her lab coat, then whirls when, out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of someone sat at her workbench.

"It's just me," Althea says, holding her hands up. 

Only then does Pansy realise she has her wand out. "Sorry," she says, and she tucks her wand back into the pocket of her skirt. "I suppose I'm a little jumpy."

"Dolohov will do that to you," Althea says. She's leaning on the edge of the workbench, her arse barely perched on the high stool behind it. She's wearing grey trousers today, ones that look almost like Draco's from the day before, Pansy thinks, and an ivory shirt with tiny, pale pink flowers printed on it, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the collar open to her sternum. Her hair's twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck, and Pansy has the distinct urge to undo it, to tangle her fingers in its thickness, to feel the silken strands slide across her skin. She looks away, suddenly flustered.

"I thought you were with Durant," Pansy says, slipping into her lab coat. "Already done?"

Althea shakes her head. "Muriel Burke wanted to see him," she says. "Probably wanted to check in with him about Malfoy." She turns on the stool as Pansy walks over to the workbench. "So I thought I'd take advantage of the break to come down and see you."

Pansy gives her a small smile. "I'm honoured." She leans against the corner of the table. "Finding out anything interesting about the Robichaus?

"Not really." Althea makes a face. "Mostly it's just sitting around whilst Durant peers into a Pensieve. Supposedly he's culling memories that I can look at as well, but it's slow going for now." She kicks the heel of her scuffed black combat boot against the rung of the school, a soft, even thud, until Pansy reaches over and touches her knee. 

"Stop," Pansy says, and Althea's cheeks flush. 

"Sorry." Althea hooks her heel over the rung. She glances over at Pansy. "I tried to work this morning on that scroll you gave me."

Pansy eyes her. "Any luck?"

Althea rubs her thumb along the back of her hand. There's a smudge of ink there; Pansy wonders where it's from. "Some. I've managed to break through two of the general wards, but your sister's a few unusual ones on there. I'm thinking of taking it to one of my friends from school who works with Gringotts' cursebreaking team. She might have an idea or two, if that's all right with you."

For a moment, Pansy thinks about objecting. Whatever's in that scroll, she doesn't want other people seeing. She's not even certain she wants Althea to know what it is, but Pansy's taking the chance there. She trusts Althea, and that surprises her, all things considered. If anyone had asked her in May if she'd share her family's secrets with Althea Whitaker, she would have laughed her bloody head off. And yet, here she is. 

"Pans?" Althea asks, and Pansy looks over at her. Althea's brow is furrowed, her face worried. "I won't if you don't want me to."

"It's all right," Pansy says slowly. "I mean, if you think this person can keep a secret."

Althea nods. "She can. I wouldn't ask her otherwise." She hesitates, and then she adds, "We used to date."

A flare of something dark and hot zips through Pansy. "Oh?" She can't keep the sharp archness from her voice. 

"We stayed friends," Althea says, as if that's supposed to help. And really, Pansy doesn't understand why it doesn't. She shouldn't give a fuck whom Althea shagged or didn't shag or whatever it was between her and this mysterious cursebreaker. "She won't be a twat about this, I promise."

Pansy doesn't like the sullenness that's blanketing her as she says, "It's fine." She tries to smile at Althea, but she thinks it's just a grimace instead. 

Althea gives her a sideways look, frowning just a bit, then she says, "I'll take it to her as soon as I can." 

They're both quiet, and Pansy feels strangely uncomfortable. It's ridiculous of her, she knows. She and Althea are friends, after all, or as close to that as Pansy can get with someone who hadn't grown up in Slytherin. She picks a quill up from the workbench and rolls it between her fingers, uncertain as to what to say. 

Jonesey walks in, a stack of parchment in his hands, his head bent over the topmost one. "I've those results from the Unspeakables' tests to go over with you, Parkinson," he says, and then he looks up and sees Althea. "Oh," he says, and he glances between her and Pansy. "I didn't know you were having a meeting."

"We weren't," Althea says, and she slides off the chair. She looks over at Pansy. "I'll let you know what I find out."

Pansy feels a bit bereft and almost as if she wants to smack Jonesey for his awful timing. She wants Althea to stay, she realises, and that's an odd thought. "Thanks," she says instead, and she touches Althea's arm as she passes. Althea stops and looks back at her. "I mean it."

"I know." Althea gives her a small smile, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. She bites her lip, and then says in a rush, "Look, I'm going over to see my dad tomorrow." She drops her gaze, and her sallow cheeks pinken just a bit. "I was wondering if you'd like to come." She looks back up at Pansy. "You don't have to, you know. It's just I was going to ask Maxie, but he's not around, and I'd rather not go on my own."

"Why?" Pansy asks the question softly; Jonesey has the decency to pretend to be absorbed by the lab reports. 

Althea looks uncomfortable. She rubs the back of her neck; her shirt pulls tight against her almost flat chest. She's not wearing a bra, Pansy realises, and that thought sends a curl of warmth through her. "I wanted to ask him about my mum," Althea says after a moment. "And if it goes badly…" She sighs. 

"You want someone with you," Pansy says, understanding. 

"Something like that." Althea gives her wry smile. "But I can find Maxie--"

"No." Pansy couldn't bear it, she realises, if someone else went with Althea. "No, I"ll go."

Althea's shoulders relax, her relief obvious. "All right then. We'll talk later?"

Pansy nods, her lips quirking up just a bit. "Yeah."

And then Althea's gone, and Pansy's left with Jonesey, who's giving her a curious look. 

"You two," he says, and he gestures with one of the parchments towards the door Althea's just left swinging shut. "You're not…" He stops, then raises his eyebrows at Pansy. "You know."

"Oh, God, no," Pansy says, and she shakes her head. "We're just friends."

Jonesey just looks at her. "All right," he says, and Pansy wants to protest, to tell him that he's reading into things, that she and Althea Whitaker aren't _that_ sort, that she's everything with Tony to worry about, that her mother would have bloody kittens if she even thought about starting something with Althea. No chance of grandchildren from that, is there?

And it would be _something_ more than a one-off, she thinks, and her cheeks warm enough that Jonesey just raises an eyebrow, and Pansy thinks about decking him, just for the bloody hell of it.

Instead, she just holds out her hand and says, "Let's see how badly the Unspeakables have fucked up this time."

Besides, even if she _was_ that sort, which Pansy never has been, not even back in school when she'd been much more experimental, she'd never go for Althea. She's too long and lean, too boyish. Pansy thinks that if she were interested in women, then she'd want someone more like Hannah with her blonde curls and soft curves. 

Pansy frowns down at the parchment, the numbers blurring in front of her eyes. 

And anyway, someone in Seven-Four-Alpha has to stand strong against shagging one's co-worker. And given Pansy's already shagged Tony seven ways from Sunday before she'd shared a case with him--or a career for that matter--Pansy really thinks that honour has to go to Althea. She'd never want to cock that up for her.

Would she?

"Parkinson," Jonesey snaps, drawing her attention back. 

It's just a lack of sleep, she tells herself. That and sobering potions always make her a bit funny in the head. Whatever this is will pass after a good night's rest. She hands the parchment back to Jonesey. "Pull out the gargoyle," she says, to his pleased grin. No more thinking about Althea Whitaker, Pansy tells herself. 

They've a hell of a lot of work to do.

***

Draco's alone in the incident room when Harry comes back from interviewing Dolohov. He looks up when Harry comes through the door, grateful for anything that'll distract him from the dull boredom of reading his own words for the twentieth time. He doesn't know what more he can add to his statement; as hard as he tries, he can't remember anything else of note. Besides, he knows memory's a fragile thing, easily cocked up or tweaked from what the truth might actually be.

"No joy?" Draco asks, a bit hesitantly. He doesn't really know what to say to Harry this morning. It'd been easier when the others were around, but they're all off doing their own work. He'd been glad of the quiet solitude earlier; now with Harry back he's just a bit awkward and uncertain. 

Harry shakes his head, setting his file jacket back down on one of the desks. He oughtn't do that, Draco thinks. It'll get filed in the wrong box if they're not careful. Draco Summons it, catching it in mid-air. Harry sits on the side of Pansy's usual desk, his feet skimming the floor. "Dolohov's a right shit."

"I could have told you that," Draco says. He flips through the file jacket, skimming Harry's notes on the interview. There's nothing new there, not really, although Dolohov's a bit more creative now with his insults. Draco closes the file and stands, walking it over to the stack of file boxes on the desk at the far end of the room. He can feel Harry's eyes on him, and the back of his neck prickles. Draco takes his time filing the jacket, making certain the charm's set that will record the time the file was returned. 

When he turns back around, Harry's watching him, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched around the edge of the desk. He's chewing his bottom lip, looking for all the world like a schoolboy who's been scolded. "Are we talking?" Harry asks, a bit hesitantly. 

Draco walks back over to his desk, but he doesn't sit yet. He ruffles through a stack of papers, almost aimlessly. "We never weren't." And that's not exactly true, he knows. Still, he doesn't know what Harry wants of him right now. 

"It's just you left last night." Harry rubs at a mark on his trousers, not looking up at Draco. 

"Yes." Draco sets the papers back down, staring at the scarred top of the desk, the wood nicked by generations of Aurors, the varnish worn down by myriad hands smoothing across the grain. "I thought it best."

And he had. If he'd stayed, he knows their row would have just grown more vicious, and Draco's afraid of what he might have said. Or of what Harry might have in the end. 

"Right." Harry sounds a bit broken down. Tired. He's quiet for a moment, and then he asks, "Are you staying away tonight too?"

Draco hasn't thought that far, to be honest. He leans against his desk, the corner of it biting into the back of his thigh. He stares at the sconce that flickers across the room. It needs a new Lumos charm cast on it again; that one's never held properly, not since the first day they'd come in here. Merlin, but that feels a lifetime ago. He swallows, his throat dry. 

"I don't know," Draco says finally. He knows Blaise would rather him go back to Grimmauld; Blaise thinks he's mad for fighting with Harry over this. But Draco also thinks Blaise wants Durant to come back tonight, whether or not he's saying so. Or thinking it even. And Draco's not certain what to do with that realisation. 

Harry doesn't bother to hide his disappointment. "All right," he says, but Draco knows he's unhappy about it. 

They fall silent, and Draco exhales, feeling as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He doesn't know what to say to Harry; he wishes he could just have the room to himself again. Work, as dull as it might be, is preferable to this tension between them. 

And then Harry says, not looking at Draco, "I know I cocked up last night." He twists his hands together, his thick, wide fingers sliding against each other. "I want you to be safe, and I think that's okay of me really, but maybe I was a bit…" He trails off, his lip caught between his teeth. 

"Heavy-handed?" Draco asks. "Condescending? A goddamned prick?"

When Harry doesn't answer, Draco pushes himself off the corner of his desk. "Whatever, Harry."

"All of the above." Harry catches Draco's wrist as he walks past; Draco stops, looks back at him. "I made it about me, didn't I? Not you."

Draco just watches him, the tightness in his chest catching again. 

Harry's fingers are warm against Draco's skin. "You took care of yourself," he says, his voice soft. "And I'm glad you did, I really am. But there's part of me that thinks maybe you don't need me--"

"I don't," Draco says, and he knows it sounds harsh. Harry's hand slips away; he turns his head. 

"Fair enough," Harry says, his voice a whisper. 

And Draco's temper flares again. "Here you go again, Harry," he snaps. "Even when you're trying to apologise, it's all about you. I don't need you. I know that upsets you because there's some part of you that thinks the only way you can show your love to people is for them to need your protection, but that's not what I want from you. I trained as a fucking Auror, and I might not have made it to Inspector like you, but I damned well made Sergeant, and the Unspeakables put me at Second Rank, so I think the Ministry fucking thinks I'm capable of taking care of myself and others out in the field. So I'm sorry if you're hurt that I don't need you like that, but it's bloody obnoxious of you to get twattish with me over something so fucking _stupid--_ "

"I just want you to be safe!" Harry's standing up, and he's crossed his arms over his chest with that sodding mulish look of his on his face, and Draco just doesn't know what to do any more. He's tired, and he doesn't want to row like this. Not again. 

So Draco turns away instead. "You can't keep me safe, Harry," he says, and he's so fucking exhausted. He hadn't been able to sleep last night; every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen his uncle's smirking face. 

Harry doesn't say anything, and when Draco looks back over his shoulder, Harry's hand is over his face, his body bent. And then a wave of grief crashes over Draco, and he can feel Harry drowning in it, all the sorrow and fear of what he's lost in life roiling through him. It's almost overwhelming in its intensity, and Draco grabs the edge of the desk to keep it from pushing him to his knees. 

"Oh," Draco manages to say, and it's just a huff of breath against the tsunami of emotion he's caught from Harry. And then Harry looks up at him, his eyes bright and wet, and then it starts to recede, just enough for Draco to get his bearings again. Draco closes his eyes, tries to settle the queasiness in his stomach. He doesn't know how Harry manages this level of fear and anxiety. He breathes out, and opens his eyes, looking at Harry. "When's the last time you went to Freddie?" he asks. He knows Harry hasn't been going as frequently since they've been back from New York. He's been too caught up with Draco and his grief. 

Harry shrugs, his hands shoved in his pockets now. He's still hunched in on himself, and Draco resists the urge to go over to him, to wrap his arms around Harry's narrow waist. "Not that long."

Draco scowls at him. "Harry."

"Two weeks," Harry says, and he looks away. "I missed last week's appointment."

"Why?" Draco leans back against the desk. "Was it because of me?"

Harry swallows, shakes his head, and Draco knows he's lying. "I just didn't have time. All this with your uncle…"

Draco wants to call Harry's bluff, but he can't. Not with the look on Harry's face. So he just says, "You should ring Freddie up. See when you can see her again."

"Maybe," Harry says. 

"You _will,_ " Draco says, and he doesn't care if he's fierce. He can't carry Harry and himself right now. He knows he doesn't have it in him. Besides, Freddie's good for Harry; she can help him in ways Draco never could, whether or not Harry believes that. 

Harry glances over at him, and Draco thinks he's going to say no, but the fight goes out of Harry, and he just nods.

Neither of them says anything. Draco's body settles again, the excess of emotion draining away. He feels more tired than before now; he wishes he could just go back to Grimmauld and crawl into bed. 

"I know," Harry says finally, "that you can take care of yourself."

Draco doesn't think he does. 

Harry walks over to Draco; he reaches out, touches Draco's face. Draco doesn't pull away. "I do," Harry says, and his fingers slip through Draco's hair. "But it doesn't mean I don't get scared. I couldn't bear losing you, Draco." He swallows, his tongue wets his lips before he looks away. "Yesterday frightened me." His knuckles brush the yellowing bruises on Draco's cheek. "I didn't even know you'd been taken, and then when you showed up again, hurt the way you'd been--" His voice cracks, and a tear slips from the corner of his eye. Harry blinks it away. "I felt like I'd failed you. Like I hadn't been there when you needed me--"

"You are a fucking idiot, Harry Potter," Draco says, but his own voice is thick. He reaches for Harry's waist, twisting his fingers in Harry's rumpled shirt. "You don't always have to be there."

"But I should." Harry lets Draco pull him close, wrap his arms around him. "And then I felt like a sodding wanker for making you angry--"

"Well, you should for that." Draco presses his face into the curve of Harry's neck, breathes the scent of him in. "You twat."

Harry just laughs, but it's half a sob as well, Draco knows that, even as Harry's arms tighten around him. Draco tries to hold still, tries not to flinch from the soreness of the Cruciatus, but Harry feels it anyway and pulls back. "Did I hurt you?"

"A bit." Draco knows better than to lie about that. "But I'm all right." He leans his head against Harry's shoulder. "Are we still rowing?"

"Have we ever stopped?" Harry says, but there's a softness and a touch of amusement to his voice that makes Draco smile. He kisses the top of Draco's head. "I am sorry for being such a condescending shit."

Draco just nods. "Accepted," he says. "But I'm not apologising for getting angry about that."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." Harry draws back, tilts Draco's chin up. "Tell me you'll come home tonight."

"I'll think about it," Draco says against Harry's mouth. He snorts when Harry nips his bottom lip. "Not helping your case, Potter." Even if it is. Perhaps a bit. 

"Wretch." Harry pulls back as his mobile goes off. "Fuck it. Hold on." He pulls it from his trouser pocket, frowns down at it, then flips it open. "Hey, Dudders."

Draco eyes him. 

_My cousin,_ Harry mouths, and Draco's interest is piqued. Harry hasn't talked much about the Muggle side of his family, although Draco knows enough to dislike them. Still, Draco's curious about this one; Harry doesn't seem to hate him, not entirely. 

"Thanks for ringing me back," Harry's saying. "It's just I need this information for work, and I thought you might be able to find something out about Wilton Hansford. We hadn't any joy on our end." He pauses, listening. "Yeah. I have a BBAN that we tracked down to them." He looks over at Draco. "Do you have that number?"

Draco scrambles for the file Blaise was working on yesterday, then hands it to Harry. 

Harry reads the number out over the mobile. "We're fairly certain it's a SEPA number." He pauses. Draco can almost hear the voice on the other end, a definite southern accent, and he remembers Harry grew up in Surrey. He wonders if the cousin's still there. 

"Czech Republic?" Harry raises his eyebrows at Draco. "That's where the BBAN's from?"

Draco frowns at him. "Tell me we don't have to go back to Prague," he murmurs, and Harry shushes him as he reaches for a quill. He scrawls an address down along the margin of Blaise's report. From what Draco can tell, reading it upside down, it's a street address; he thinks the postcode is the City itself, that small square mile in the middle of London that houses a great percentage of the country's financial headquarters. 

"You're the best, Duds," Harry says. He's quiet for a moment, and then he looks over at Draco. "Yeah, you know I'll be there. Just tell Mel I'm waiting for my invite to arrive. She wouldn't mind me bringing a date, would she?"

"To what?" Draco whispers, his frown deepening. He's not certain he wants to have anything to do with Harry's Muggle family. He waits until Harry rings off before he says again, a bit more demandingly this time, "What are you inviting me to, Harry?"

Harry flips his mobile closed. "Dudley's getting married in a few months. You'd like him, I think. Or rather, you'd like his fiancée Mel. She's brilliant, and she's changed Duds rather a lot and for the better, in my opinion. So I thought you might want to go with me."

Draco knows he must look appalled. "To a Muggle wedding."

"I thought you didn't have issues with Muggles now," Harry says, a bit too evenly, and Draco wants to squawk at him. 

"No," Draco says, and he feels oddly uncomfortable. "It's not that, not really. It's just…" He folds his arms over his chest. "It's your family. And they've been shits to you before--"

"Dudley's not all bad," Harry says. 

"And yet you've never mentioned him before, at least by name," Draco points out, and Harry looks a bit ashamed. "Why?"

Harry doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he sighs, runs his hand through his hair. "It's complicated. I don't hate Dudley, but my aunt and uncle were--"

"Utterly horrible to you," Draco says, and Harry doesn't object. 

Instead, Harry shrugs. "Yeah. But Dudley and I've made amends. We're not close, but we keep up from time to time. Have a beer when he's in town, send Christmas cards, that sort of thing."

All that sounds terribly awkward to Draco. "And you want me to meet him now."

"Well, yeah." Harry slips his mobile in his pocket. "In November or so."

"Because you think we'll be together then." Draco's gaze flicks over to Harry's face. 

Harry looks a bit confused. "Are you planning not to be?" he asks, a bit carefully, and a sudden happiness floods through Draco, wild and hot. 

"I think it'd be all right," Draco says after a moment. "To go to your cousin's wedding." He hesitates, then adds, utterly unnecessarily, "Together."

"Good." Harry's hand curls around Draco's. "Because I'd like to."

Their fingers slide together, warm and wide. It feels right, Draco thinks, to hold Harry's hand like this. He wishes they could do it more, in public even. He knows why it's a bad idea, knows it was even his idea to keep things quiet for now. But he thinks this might be more long-lived than he'd first expected. Or he hopes it will be, at least. 

"So." Harry leans in, brushes his lips against Draco's. "Want to go annoy a securities firm with me, love?"

And really, Draco thinks, a warm laugh bubbling up inside of him, at the moment, there's nothing he'd like better.

***

The last person Blaise expects to be lounging just outside the entrance to Knockturn Alley is Gawain Robards. For a moment, Blaise thinks he's hallucinating, that something from the grim darkness of the street behind him has addled his brain. Desperate to get out of the stifling quiet of Granger's office in the Department of Mysteries, he'd volunteered to go out to Knockturn to talk to the various shopkeepers who dealt in certain types of necromantic antiquities such as Lestrange's grimoire, but the moment he'd mentioned _De morte fugienda_ or even Paolo Biondo, every last one of them had shut their gobs. Alastair Borgin had even gone so far as to cross himself when Blaise had brought up the grimoire and had told Blaise not to get involved with that sort of magic. And if it's enough to frighten Borgin, Blaise supposes that's not the best sign for what Lestrange might want with it.

His last stop had been at a small shop that he knows full well is a necromantic supply, whatever their sign might read. The bones in the window tell a different story. Still, the necromancer himself hadn't been in, and Blaise had been reduced to leaving a message with the apprentice, who'd written it down dutifully. Circe only knows if Kelley will get it, though. Apprentices must be thin on the ground as of late; the one Kelley's hired is surprisingly moronic.

Blaise blinks against the bright light of Diagon. Robards is still there, and when he catches sight of Blaise, he pushes himself off the wall, crooking two fingers Blaise's way. Even more unexpected, Blaise thinks, but he does as the Head Auror says, and walks over to him. 

"Sir," Blaise says. A worry goes through him. "It's not Draco again, is it?"

"What?" Robards looks confused, and then his forehead smoothes out. "Oh." He gives Blaise a sympathetic look. "No, no, lad. Malfoy's fine. Off with Harry I've heard, checking out a lead. Granger told me I might find you here, however."

That unsettles Blaise even more. "Right." He tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves. "You might have sent for me when I got back."

"I suppose." Robards frowns, then says, "Let me buy you a pint."

And how can Blaise object to that? He nods and follows Robards down Diagon, but they don't head for the Leaky, which surprises Blaise. Instead, Robards takes a side street, stopping in front of a worn-looking pub called the Bat and Bludger. When he pushes the door open, cool air drifts out. The pub's small and shadowed, and there's a Quidditch match playing on the wireless in the corner. 

"Get a table," Robards says. "You want a lager or a bitter?"

What Blaise really wants is a firewhisky, but he thinks it better to go with a beer instead, if he's drinking in the middle of the day with his guv's guv. "Bitter, please," he says, and he wanders over to a table in the corner, away from the others. The floor's a bit stickier than Blaise would like, and the table's more than a bit wobbly, but a stabilisation charm fixes that easily enough. By the time Robards is back with two pints in hand, Blaise is leaning back in his chair, looking around at the clientele, all of which are at least four or five decades older than him. 

"This your local, sir?" Blaise asks, taking the pint of bitter Robards hands him. 

Robards sits. "Not as much," he says. "Although I've been known to frequent it when I'd rather not be noticed down the Leaky."

And that makes Blaise raise an eyebrow, uncertainty roiling through him. "So this is one of those moments?"

It takes Robards a while to answer. He twists his lager between his hands, frowning down at it, before he sighs and lifts it to his mouth, taking a sip. "It is," he says finally. 

Blaise thinks it wise to wait. He swallows a mouthful of bitter; it's surprisingly good. 

"How much do you know about your father?" Robards says, and that's not what Blaise was expecting at all. It puts him on his back foot, really. 

"Not a lot," Blaise says after a moment. "Mother never likes to talk about him, if I'm honest." He doesn't want to mention that memory he'd had whilst his grandfather worked over him back in May, going deep into his mind to heal it up. It still comes to him at night in his dreams sometimes, his mother bent over his father's body, the shadows from the hearth flickering over them whilst she murmurs the same words his grandfather had said over him. _O, you angels of light, CZNS or CZONS, TOTT or TOITT, SIAS or SIGAS, FMND or FMOND, dwelling in the Eastern part of the universe, powerful in the administering of the strong and healthy medicine…_

He looks up at Robards, who's watching him carefully. "Forgive me for being so blunt, but why do you care, sir?"

Robards scratches his greying beard, looking away. "I was proud," he says, "to give you the Hephaestus Gore Medal when you returned to London. You know that, yes?"

Blaise hadn't, not really, but he nods. He's still not certain what this has to do with his father, but something holds him back, keeps him from asking. He cups his hands around his pint glass, rubbing his thumb up and down the slick side. 

"Your father would have been proud of you," Robards says, and there's a softness in his voice that Blaise doesn't expect. 

He looks up at Robards, his brows drawing together. "You knew my father?"

"Christopher Zabini," Robards says, and his eyes are gentle when he looks at Blaise. "Sergeant Christopher Zabini, to be exact. He was my partner, back when he first came out of training. We worked together until he died."

Blaise can't breathe. He stares at Robards, unable to move. "What?" he manages to choke out, and there's a buzzing in his ears. 

Robards lifts his pint, and his hand's shaking a bit. "I remember when he met your mother. He came back, told me he'd met the girl he was going to marry. Six months later, he'd got her up the duff and made your grandad furious in the process. Olivia ran away from Wales with Chris, settled here in London." Robards voice catches, and he takes a long drink before setting his glass down again. "I was your godfather when you were born."

Blaise doesn't understand any of this. He shakes his head. "You're lying." None of this makes sense. "I don't have a godfather." Much less one like Gawain Robards. 

"Your mother didn't want you to know any of this," Robards says. He twists his glass, makes rings of condensation on the wooden table. "When I brought you and the others into training, she showed up in my office and flayed me with that tongue of hers." A half-smile quirks his mouth. "I'd forgotten what a terror Olivia Dee could be. You ought to have seen her when she was younger. She had your father wrapped around her little finger; he was utterly mad for her."

And things are starting to make sense to Blaise. His mother's hatred of the Aurors, her fury when he'd told her Robards had offered him a place in Auror training, had pressed him to sign up in fact. He looks at Robards. "When you came to recruit us…."

"I was mostly interested in you," Robards says. "Malfoy and Parkinson intrigued me, as well, but you were the one I'd promised to look after." He runs his thumb over the rim of his glass. "I've wanted to tell you for a while, but your mother insisted I keep my gob shut." He gives Blaise a wry smile. "She's quite persuasive when she wants to be."

Blaise's hands tremble; he grips his glass as tightly as he can to keep it from showing. "I don't understand," he says finally. "Why are you telling me now?"

Robards heaves a heavy sigh. "I'm not certain." He shifts in his seat. "Call it an old Auror's intuition, maybe, but with the way things are going and how involved your grandfather's become in recent events…" Robards hesitates, then says, "There are things I feel you should know." He takes another drink, licks away the foam on his moustached lip. "Your mother hates me, and perhaps she should. I ought to have been with your father when the curse that killed him hit. Instead, I'd told him he was an idiot, let him go off with that fool grandfather of yours--"

"My grandfather killed him?" Blaise leans forward. HIs heart's thudding in his chest; he's barely able to keep his anger at bay. 

"No." Robards shakes his head. "I don't know what happened that night. All I know is that he went off with Barachiel and when he came back, he was barely alive, and your grandfather was nearly out of his mind with it all. Your mother did everything she could to save him, but…" He bends his head, his shoulders hunched. "He was too far gone." He looks up at Blaise, and his eyes are wet. "Your father was one of my best friends, Zabini." He stops, then says, "Blaise." The name is warm falling from his lips, and Blaise wants to believe in this, wants to think it true. "I trusted Chris with my life, and he trusted me with his. I failed him that night, and it's something I'll always regret."

Blaise's throat aches. He remembers his mother kneeling in front of the fire. He closes his eyes. That face. Worn, weary, twisted in pain. But it was still his father, and Blaise knows that. He takes a breath, lets the memory drift up again. Deep brown skin, dark curly hair, brown eyes that sparkled when he looked at Blaise. "Oh," Blaise says, and he feels as if his world's been upended. He opens his eyes to find Robards watching him. 

"I know this is a lot to take in," Robards says, and Blaise wants to laugh, wants to throw his pint in the Head Auror's face. There's a part of him that's furious with Robards, that doesn't understand why this is something that couldn't be kept secret still. Blaise has wanted all his life to know something about his father, to meet someone who knew him. His mother could never tell him what he wanted to know--or she wouldn't, really--and Blaise has spent the past two decades creating this fantasy of his father, a man who surpassed the reality, a man who'd become an ideal for Blaise to live up to. Even his becoming an Auror had been a way to please his unknown father, to make him think Blaise was worthwhile, to hope, perhaps, that, should he still be alive, if he heard of Blaise's cases, of the criminals Blaise had caught, the glory Blaise had brought to the Ministry, he might be proud, might be willing to claim him; Blaise knows that, and the bitter irony that his father _was_ an Auror isn't lost upon him. 

And now he's being told that father he's been so desperate to please is dead. Has been dead for as long as Blaise has been dreaming about him. It's not that Blaise didn't expect it. He's not a fool. There've been enough signs for him to know something must have happened, but his mother had been so adamant about not speaking of his father that Blaise had some room for hope that someday his father would find him, would walk into his life and wrap his arms around Blaise, telling him what a fine son he was. 

That fantasy's just been ripped away from him, and it hurts, far more than Blaise thought it might. 

Blaise drinks his beer silently, unable to look Robards--his _godfather_ for fuck's sake--in the face. His anger's growing, and Blaise isn't certain at whom. His mother? His grandfather? Robards himself? The way this secret's been kept from him, as if he's some infant still, unable to handle the loss of his father? 

He sets his glass down with a thump against the wooden tabletop. Beer sloshes up the sides. The stabilising charm wobbles for a moment, then settles before the glass can tip over. "I don't know," Blaise says, his voice low, "what you want me to do with this information."

Robards hesitates. "I don't know either," he admits, and Blaise wants to scream at him, wants to tell Robards to Obliviate him, to take this knowledge away. 

Instead, he finds himself asking, "What was he like?"

And that tugs another smile out of Robards, one that's wistful and sad. "Smart. Clever as hell. A damned fine Auror." Robards leans back in his chair, studying Blaise. "A lot like you, actually, although you've a bit more polish, thanks to your mum." He wipes his hand across his mouth. "Chris was far more salt of the earth. He made Olivia laugh, and when you were born, he paraded you through the bullpen. Bertie Aubrey dangled you on his knee."

That feels like a punch to Blaise's gut. He doesn't know why. Of course there'd be Aurors still who knew his father. "Bertie never said."

"I told him not to." Robards face flushes; he looks down into his beer. "All the ones who were here back then…" He stops, then he sighs. "Your mother made it quite clear that she wanted it that way. If you were determined to be an Auror she wouldn't stand in your way, but we weren't to speak of your father." He glances up at Blaise. "His files were classified, his name redacted from anything you might see. I owed her for not being there that night, so I agreed."

Blaise's disbelief is settling into a cold, fiery fury. "Apologies, sir, but fuck you." His fingers tighten on the pint glass. "You'd no right--" The glass shatters, and Blaise breaks off, looking down at the blood welling from his hands. 

"Shit." Robards is clearing the shards of glass out of the way, Vanishing them along with the spilt beer, then reaching for Blaise's hands. He cleans them, casts an Episkey to close the shallow wounds. They still throb, but Blaise is grateful for that, really. The pain keeps him grounded, helps him to remember to breathe. He twists his hands in front of him, looking down at the thin scabbed lines etched across his fingers. When he bends them, the pain intensifies. Blaise holds on to it, exhales. 

His anger's still there, but it's muted by the pain. He looks up at Robards. "You should have told me," he says, and the words scratch his throat. "From the beginning, you all should have told me."

Robards looks away, his silvery leonine head bent. "Yes." 

Blaise's head swirls with questions. He bites his lip, presses his thumb against his scored palm. The scab starts to bleed; he pulls his hand away, watches the blood seep slowly across his heart line. "What curse killed him?" he asks, and Robards shakes his head. 

"I don't know." Robards meets Blaise's gaze. "Your mother would never tell me. To be honest, I'm not certain she even understood it herself. Your grandfather might have, but he wouldn't say." 

Doesn't that sound like Barachiel Dee, Blaise thinks a bit bitterly. He wants to laugh, but he can't. It hurts too bloody damned much. "What was he doing with my grandfather that night?"

"Protecting him," Robards says simply. "I don't know what from, but Chris asked me to go with him." 

"And you said no." Blaise is starting to understand his mother's anger at the Head Auror. 

Robards turns his head; Blaise can see him swallow. "I thought your grandfather shouldn't be trusted. That he'd get your father into trouble."

Blaise's mouth tightens. "So you let him go on his own. The man who claimed to be his best friend." He leans forward. "Let me tell you something, sir. If Draco Malfoy came to me and told me he was going to do something bloody stupid, I'd shout at him, and then I'd have his goddamned back. Whatever it might take. You let my father walk into something that killed him, and you let him do it without you. Alone. Why? Because you were so bloody worried about your own career prospects?"

And when Robards looks away, Blaise knows he's struck the truth. His face crumples. "You fucking bastard," he whispers, and it's all he can do not to give in to either the fury or the tears. He struggles to keep himself together. He's lost his father and the one man in the fucking Auror force he's always looked up to. All in one fell swoop. 

Blaise pushes his chair back; it scrapes loudly across the floor. He stands up. "You'll forgive me, I think, if I don't go back to the office right now." He's barely able to speak; the words feel as if he's ripping them out of his soul. "I need…" He doesn't know what he needs. Not really. He can't go back though. He can't bear to see any of them. Not even Draco. He can't be caught up in their bloody drama, in this stupid case. "Time," he says finally. "I need some fucking time."

And when Blaise strides out of the pub, he doesn't look back. 

He can't. 

The moment his feet strike the cobblestones of Diagaon, he Apparates away.

***

When Draco and Harry walk up to the purported offices of Wilton Hansford Securities near the London Wall end of Wormwood Street in the City's financial district, Draco's not in the least surprised to see a lack of signage and nothing but a black-painted door in a Victorian townhouse that looks oddly out of place surrounded by the slick stone and glass buildings of Deutsche Bank down the street, not to mention Barclay's a few doors down.

"Is this the place?" Harry asks, and he frowns down at the scrap of paper he'd scrawled the address on before they left the Ministry. They hadn't Apparated over; they'd taken the Tube instead, hopping off at the Liverpool Street station and making the short trek over to Wormwood.

Draco rolls his shoulders, trying to put himself into the mindset of a Muggle. Their Auror warrant cards might be bloody useless here if the first line of defence is non-wizarding, so they've charmed them to look as if they're from the Met. It's a bit unethical, really, but it's also standard practice, unless one wants to ring up the Obliviators afterwards, which is an entirely different--and much more complex--set of paperwork. It tends to annoy the Muggle Liaison Office, which then has to smooth feathers over with Downing Street, but it works well enough that Robards will wave the whinging away. 

"Firms like Wilton Hansford don't tend to advertise their presence, Harry." Draco glances over at him. "Really, we need to come up with a wealth management plan for you at some point."

"Gringotts works just fine for me," Harry says. He straightens his jacket, then his tie. 

Draco follows him up the steps. "But wouldn't you like to see your funds grow?" He doesn't understand Harry's laissez-faire attitude towards his money. Draco has a small portfolio he's been working on since he started in the Auror force, tucking a little bit of his pay packet away into each month. It's not much, not compared to the wealth he'd been exposed to growing up, but it's his, strings-free, no interference from his family, and Draco can't help but be grateful for that fact at the moment. 

Harry just shrugs as he holds the door open for Draco. "I haven't really thought about it, to be honest. I've enough to live of off right now, so what's the hurry?"

"Never a more Gryffindor approach to life have I ever heard," Draco says under his breath, shaking his head as he strides into the building, and Harry laughs softly behind him.

The reception area of Wilton Hansford is appropriately chic, with thick rugs over polished wood floors and low-slung leather sofas in front of a large mahogany desk. The lighting is warm and welcoming, and paintings that Draco can tell are expensive originals without even looking closely at them are hung on damask-covered walls. 

A woman looks up from the desk as they come in; she's tall and leggy and blonde, perfectly poised and elegantly beautiful. She's been chosen to fit with the decor, Draco suspects, and she looks as expensive and posh as her surroundings. "Might I help you?" she asks, and her accent's just as upper-class as her robin's egg blue suit. Her gaze slides to Draco, and she flinches ever so slightly when she takes in the bruises on his face. Still, she's too polite to say anything, and, to be honest, Draco suspects she's seen rougher men than him walk in here. Wilston Hansford's the type of place that doesn't care who you are as long as you've money. However it might be earned.

Harry pulls his warrant card from his jacket pocket and puts on a winning smile. "Detective Inspector Potter from the Met. My partner and I are looking into a very delicate situation--" He leans in, lowers his voice a bit more. "You'll understand the type. High-profile victim who might have been taken in by her accountant. We've found a BBAN that was tracked down to your firm, and we wanted to speak to the manager in charge of the fund, just to clear some things up before…" He leaves the possibility hanging, and Merlin but Draco's impressed with Harry's ability to spin a believable lie. He never would have thought Harry had it in him, to be honest. 

The woman just looks at Harry, then eyes his warrant card. "You'll need to speak with Mr Wilton," she says, and she stands. "Wait here, please." She disappears behind a heavy wooden door. 

Draco looks over at Harry. "I'm half-tempted," he says, "to blow you right here for that spectacular lie."

Harry's mouth twitches ever so slightly. "How to turn a Slytherin on?"

"It works." Draco moves closer to Harry, brushes a piece of lint off of Harry's lapel, then he frowns down at Harry's shoes. "I do wish you'd worn brogues today and not those."

"Didn't think I'd be washed up in some place this posh," Harry says, holding his foot out. At least the trainers are clean now, thanks to a Scouring charm Draco'd sent their way before they'd left the Ministry. Harry hadn't let Draco transfigure them into something more appropriate; he'd said it didn't much matter what Muggle police wore, but Draco thinks that's bollocks. At least Harry'd had an extra jacket hanging in his office. Draco lets his fingers drift down Harry's chest, pretending to smooth his tie. Draco'd missed waking up with Harry this morning, and Blaise's bed is bloody uncomfortable now to Draco, unlike the bed in Grimmauld that shapes itself to Draco's every movement whilst he sleeps. He'd been up half the night tossing and turning and wondering what Harry was doing. He doesn't want to have to go through another night like that again, even if it was his own bloody temper that forced it, really. 

Harry catches Draco's hand, curls his fingers through Draco's. "All right?" Harry asks, and there's a warmth in his voice that coaxes a small smile from Draco. He knows what Harry's asking. Are things better between them? Has Draco forgiven him for being a right tit?

"Yes," Draco says softly, and he strokes a thumb over Harry's wrist. He can feel the steady thrum of Harry's pulse beneath his soft skin. Draco wants nothing more than to lean in, to brush his lips against Harry's, to breathe in the scent of him, musky and just a bit sour. Instead he steps back, drops Harry's hand just as the door opens back up, the blonde woman coming through, an older man with a shock of thick white hair and wire-rimmed glasses following her. 

"Thank you, Gemma," the man says before turning to Harry. "Detective Inspector Potter. I'm Arthur Wilton. I understand you've an investigatory matter?" His voice lowers on the question, even though no one else is about. There's a flicker of distaste on his face when he glances at Draco, but he covers it well. It's refreshing, Draco thinks, to be despised for hard-won bruises instead of his family name.

Harry nods and flashes his charmed warrant card again. "This is my partner, Detective Sergeant Malfoy. I was wondering if you could take a look at this BBAN for me, and perhaps give me a bit more information on it?" Harry reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper that has the account number neatly printed on it, as if it's from one of those Muggle machines. He hands it over to Wilton, who reseats his glasses on the bridge of his nose and peers down at it.

"I see," Wilton says after a moment, and then his sharp gaze slides up to Harry's forehead, before drifting back down to the paper. "You said you were with the Met?"

"Fraud division," Harry says smoothly, but Draco can tell by the set of his shoulders that he's wary. 

Wilton frowns, then folds the paper up. "I believe that account is one of our discreet funds." He taps the edge of the paper against his palm, as if he's considering something, then he looks at Harry again. "If you'll follow me, gentlemen?"

Draco exchanges a wary look with Harry as they follow Wilton through the door. Harry shrugs, his hands in his pockets, utterly ruining the line of the jacket. The hallway's still elegant, lined with small meeting rooms with leather chairs and floor to ceiling bookcases crafted of dark, gleaming wood. It's only when they go through a second door, this one smaller and less ostentatious that the poshness fades into standard office decor with white walls and industrial carpet. Wilton takes them up two flights of stairs, and Draco's starting to get a bit concerned when he stops in front of a half open door. 

A double tap on the door jamb, and Wilton leans into the office. "Nick. I've two gentlemen here who'd like to speak to you about an account I'm certain is under your management." He gestures towards Harry and Draco, and they both step forward. "Inspector Potter and Sergeant Malfoy. Nicholas here specialises in our…" He hesitates, a curiously wary look flashing on his face as he steps back from the door. "More esoteric investments, shall I say. I'll leave you in his capable hands." He gives Harry back the folded paper as he walks past them.

"Wilton," an all too familiar voice says, sharply, and Draco stills, his stomach dropping. 

The old man's already half-down the corridor, walking as fast as he possibly can. And no wonder, Draco thinks. He knows exactly who he's going to face when he steps into the office. 

"Nicholas bloody Lyndon," Harry says, his voice cold, and Draco comes in behind him, loath to look over at his sodding ex. 

"Draco." Nicholas stands, buttoning his jacket. He smoothes the front. "Good to see you again." Draco notices that he doesn't look Harry's way. Draco supposes that's what happens when the Saviour of the Wizarding World decks your gut in the middle of the fucking Leaky Cauldron. His eyebrow goes up. "You look like bloody shit, don't you, though?"

As if Nicholas would care, really. He'd never minded Draco having a bruise or two to hide before.

"I thought you were working in Gringotts' international trade department," Draco says, his mouth tightening. He won't let Nicholas see his fear. He refuses to. He keeps his shoulders tight and back; his hand brushes against Harry's, letting him know to stay back.

Nicholas quirks an eyebrow at him. "I am. I also share my time with Winston Hansford on behalf of Gringotts." He gestures towards the door on the opposite side of his office, away from them. "Walk through there and you'll be in the Gringotts trade department." His thin smile is almost feral. "Goblin portals are delightful, yes?"

Draco's trying not to shake, trying not to let either Nicholas or Harry see the way his hands tremble when he's near Nicholas. All the memories come flooding back, the ones he's tried to forget for the past two years almost, Nicholas holding him down, fucking him, telling him all he was good for was being a hole for Nicholas to come in, Nicholas coming home drunk and stinking of other men, and when Draco'd objected, shoving him backwards into the wall, shouting at him that he was nothing but Death Eater shit, no matter how much he mangled his arm, and that he'd be nothing else. Draco's stomach roils; his chest feels so fucking tight he can barely draw in an even breath. He'd done everything that Nicholas had wanted, had debased himself towards the end, letting Nicholas drag him to sex clubs where Nicholas would pick out men to fuck Draco whilst he watched, sometimes fucking them into Draco, but it was never really about Draco's pleasure, was it? Only Nicholas'. And Draco had thought this normal, had never questioned it, not really, because Nicholas would take him home afterwards and tell him he'd been brilliant, that only Nicholas could love someone like him, that Draco was so bloody lucky Nicholas was willing to take Draco to bed. 

And Draco had believed him. So much so that when Harry'd started to fuck him, Draco'd fallen into some of the same patterns, thinking himself nothing but a slag for Harry Potter, and he hadn't cared, not really. Not until he'd fallen in love. Not until Harry had proved to Draco that he was capable of being loved in return, whatever Nicholas might have told him. 

"You handle Wilton Hansford's magical hedge funds," Harry says, and there's a tightness in his voice that Draco hasn't heard in a long while. 

Nicholas' gaze swings towards Harry. "How very exciting," he says with an imperious drawl that reminds Draco so very much of his father, "to have the Chosen One standing here in my office. Brilliant, really." He glances at Draco just briefly enough for a small smile to quirk his mouth. He runs one hand through his thick, dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Your deductive reasoning is quite impressive."

And Nicholas had always been able to make a compliment sound the opposite, hadn't he? Draco can feel himself draw back, trying to make himself smaller so Nicholas doesn't go after him. He still has a scar beneath his chin, one that he'd told Harry was from a fall from a broom during Quidditch practice. It's not. Nicholas had given it to him the second time he'd lost his temper with Draco. They'd been dating three months; they'd had a row over something ridiculous. Draco barely remembers what started it, but Nicholas had backhanded him, and his grandfather's signet ring had sliced through Draco's skin. Nicholas had been sorry afterwards, but back then, before the fights had grown worse, Nicholas was always sorry once his anger had ebbed away. 

Harry's tense. Draco can feel it, and he knows Harry senses Draco's own turmoil. Draco tries to push it down as much as he can, tries to focus on the job to be done, not on Nicholas himself. It doesn't work well. He can almost feel the touch of Nicholas' hands on his skin, and it makes him want to flinch. 

"The Auror force would like your assistance with this BBAN," Harry manages to say, but Draco can hear the fury in his voice as Harry unfolds the paper he'd given Wilton and slaps it down on Nicholas' desk. "What the fuck is it for, and who's responsible for the funds going into it?"

Nicholas glances down at the paper. Draco sees the flinch go across his face, but Nicholas pushes the paper back. "That's private financial information, and without some sort of Wizengamot order, I'm afraid I don't have to share any details with you."

For a moment, Draco thinks Harry's going to implode. An envelope on Nicholas' desk bursts into flame. Nicholas just looks at it, that imperious smile back on his face, then flicks his wand towards the bright blue-orange flame, Vanishing the lot. "Well," Nicholas says. "Those rumours I've heard going around about Our Saviour's inability to control his magic seem to be true, don't they? Perhaps Griselda Marchbanks wasn't as mental as some would like to think."

"Harry," Draco says quietly, and he puts his hand on Harry's arm. "He's not worth it."

"I think he might be," Harry says, and there's something terrifingly raw and almost old in the roughness of Harry's voice, the way he's looking at Nicholas, as if he might rip him to pieces. 

_You have to calm down,_ Draco thinks, and he lets his mind slip through the faint chinks in Harry's, trying to soothe him. Only Draco's Legilimency is shaky and Harry also sees things Draco'd rather him not, the way Nicholas leaned over him, shouting, the fist punching the wall, barely missing Draco's head, the way Draco had scrabbled across the kitchen floor to get away from Nicholas-- _Harry. Don't._

But Harry's already turning back to Nicholas, and he's reaching out before Draco can stop him, his fingers curling around the collar of Nicholas's shirt, tugging at his tie, jerking him forward until Nicholas is half over his desk, his eyes wide with fear. "Who the _fuck_ owns that account, Lyndon?" 

Nicholas' face is going red, and he's gasping, hands slapping at Harry's. "Wizengamot," he chokes out, and Draco's pulling at Harry's shoulder, but Harry barely notices.

"Harry." Draco's voice is sharp. He's never seen Harry like this, never seen that look in Harry's eyes before, so cold and vicious, and it scares Draco more than he'd like to admit. 

"A name, you piece of shit." Harry jerks Nicholas forward again, slamming Nicholas's groin against the edge of the desk. Nicholas groans, tries to pull Harry's fingers away. "Give me one goddamned name."

"Dimitri Godunov," Nicholas gasps out, and Harry lets go of his shirt, sending Nicholas stumbling back against his chair. Nicholas rubs his throat, and the glare he's giving Harry is scathing. Draco wants to swear. Harry's made an enemy today, and Draco knows exactly what sort of prick Nicholas can be when he wants to. "Anything else," Nicholas spits out, his voice raw and harsh, "will, as I said, have to come by direct Wizengamot order." He pushes his hair out of his eyes, and they flick towards Draco, cold and bright, before settling back on Harry. "Although I'm certain they'd also love to hear how you take information by force."

Draco looks away, his mouth a thin, tight line. He wants to shake Harry, to shout at him for being an idiot bastard, one who might have jeopardised their whole bloody case with one stupid, inane action. "Come on, Harry," Draco manages to say, his hand settling on Harry's back. "Leave this bastard be for now." 

Harry's still shaking beneath Draco's touch; he can feel Harry's anger seething through him. And before Draco can stop him, Harry leans over Nicholas' desk and says, "If you even think about touching him ever again, I swear to Christ, you pisspoor shit for brains, I will find you and cut your goddamned hands right off your wrists, do I make myself clear?"

And Nicholas' eyes widen, knowingly. "How very interesting." He glances at Draco. "Moving up in the world, are we?"

"Fuck off, Nicholas," Draco snaps, and he's pushing Harry out of the office and down the hall. 

"I'll kill him," Harry says, and Draco whirls on him, his whole body shaking. 

"Have you lost your fucking mind, Harry?" Draco doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say. All he can think is that Nicholas Lyndon knows exactly how to destroy people, knows exactly which buttons to push, knows exactly how to turn a situation to his best advantage, and Harry's just gone and laid himself bare for this bloody arsewipe ex of Draco's. 

The look Harry turns on him burns bright with rage, and Draco takes a step back, suddenly uncertain. 

"Harry," Draco says, and he reaches for him. "Please don't." 

A chair in the middle of the hallway bursts into flame just as Draco's hands close around Harry's arms. 

All Draco can do is Apparate them away.

***

Blaise ends up at his mother's suite at the Beaumont.

He doesn't know why he comes here. Or perhaps he does. But he's shaking when he knocks on the door to her room. There's no answer, and he doesn't know why he expected her to be here during the middle of the afternoon. For all he knows she's gone away to one of the houses she keeps across the globe. He's just about to walk away, when the door opens. 

"Blaise?" His mother's looking at him, and her face is drawn with worry. "Is something wrong? Is it your…" She stops, then says, "Durant? Is he hurt?"

"No." Blaise turns back to her, oddly uncertain. "Why would you care?"

His mother doesn't say anything, but she holds the door open. "Come in." 

Blaise follows her in, letting her shut the door behind him. His mother's wearing a dark blue dress, belted in at the waist, and her hair and makeup are perfect. The only oddity is her lack of shoes as she pads through the sitting room. Blaise has almost forgotten she's shorter than him without her heels. 

Olivia stops beside the bar. "Wine?" she asks, and Blaise shakes his head. He couldn't bear any. Not at the moment. His mother studies him for a moment, then turns to open the small refrigerator beneath the counter, pulling out a chilled bottle of white wine. "Well, I suspect I'll need a glass, given the way you're looking at me." She pours one, perhaps a bit higher than she should, before putting the bottle back. She picks up the glass, and turns towards Blaise. "So Durant's safe."

"Yes." Blaise is feeling a bit put out. "Why would you think I'm here about that?"

His mother shrugs a bit, then walks over and sits at the end of the sofa. "You're close with him."

Blaise eyes her. "He's a friend."

"Of course." Olivia takes a sip of her wine, looking at Blaise over the rim of her glass. "One I can smell on you."

And that makes Blaise still. He's showered. Twice. There's no way his mother can smell Jake on his skin. "I've no idea what you're on about, Mother."

Olivia sets her glass down on the coffee table and sighs. "Blaise. Let's not dance around this any longer." When she stands, Blaise is half-certain he hears the rustle of wings, sees the sharp twist of her head, almost as if there's something beneath her beautiful face wanting to twist out. "A mother knows things." She moves closer to him, gracefully, almost silent on the balls of her feet. "And a Veela mother knows even more."

It's the first time in ages his mother's addressed their Veela blood directly. She stops in front of Blaise, touches his cheek. "Perhaps I've done you a disservice," Olivia murmurs, and a faint worry frown furrows her brow before she looks away. "There's so little I've told you, but I'd hoped…" She bites her lip, steps away. 

"What?" Blaise's curiosity is piqued. His anger about his father is slipping away, but only just enough to make him hold his tongue. For now, at least. 

His mother picks up her glass of wine again, takes a long sip. She holds it cupped between her palms, her thumb smoothing over the rim. "You've been sleeping with Jake Durant."

Blaise doesn't feel like denying it. Not any longer. "Yes."

Olivia looks over at him, tall, thin and elegant even with her bare feet. In this light, she looks as if she's his age, not two decades older. "I can smell," she says again, and her face crumples before she turns away. 

"Mother." Blaise is uneasy. He's never seen her like this before. "What--"

"It's tradition, you see." Olivia has her back to him. Her shoulders are hunched, one arm folded over her chest. "When one's child finds a mate."

Blaise stills, something deep inside of him going quiet at her words, the faintest flutter of wings stirring. "I beg your pardon?"

His mother lifts her glass again. "I'd hoped you wouldn't know the pain of it." She turns, looking at Blaise, and her face is unhappy. "The Veela. It rises more when you've met your mate." 

"I--" Blaise doesn't know what to say. 

"You needn't protest." Olivia sounds tired, worn. "I can smell it. You and Durant mixed. I know what that means. My mother smelt it on me once."

Blaise falls silent, looks at her. 

His mother moves towards him again. She touches Blaise's arm, her gaze sliding down him. "The way you move as well. I've seen it since you came back from New York, but it's more pronounced today."

"Jake's not my mate," Blaise says, but the words sound hollow, and something sharp and talonlike twists inside him. He tries to ignore it, tries to push it away. 

Olivia's smile is thin. "That's what I thought once too," she says, "but the Veela always knows, Blaise." She drains her wine glass, and Blaise thinks he sees tears in his mother's eyes before she turns away. 

Blaise has never seen Olivia Zabini cry. 

"Your mate," he says, and his voice echoes in the silence of the room. "Was he Christopher Zabini?"

His mother stops, her back to him once more. For a moment, he thinks she's going to whirl on him, angry and quick, but then her shoulders slump. She's quiet for a long moment, and then she breathes out, a slow, uneven huff of grief. 

"My father," Blaise says.

"Yes." His mother walks over to the sofa, sits, her wine glass still dangling from her fingers. "I loved him." She props one elbow on the arm of the sofa, her knuckles pressed to her mouth. "I met him in Berlin, you know. At a conference. He'd come to speak on the illegal artifacts trade, and I was presenting for the first time on necromantic potions. Christopher was…" She smiles and her face softens, almost seems younger. "Funny. Smart. Beautiful. I knew I loved him by the time that weekend was over. And after that, he tracked me down in Betws-y-Coed. He found me in an Oxfam shop and took me to dinner that night." She looks at Blaise then. "Your grandfather hated him; he thought Christopher was a distraction to my potions career."

Blaise walks over to the other end of the sofa and sits, his hands clasped between his knees. "Was he?"

Olivia laughs. "Oh, without a doubt." Her hand settles on her belly. "But then I was pregnant with you at twenty-three, and Christopher was so idiotically happy--" She breaks off, her voice catching. Blaise watches as it takes his mother a moment to go on. When she does, she's looking away from him. "I always told you that your grandparents threw me out because I'd found myself pregnant, and that's not untrue. Not entirely. Even Mother was horrified because that sort of thing wasn't done. Particularly not with a British Auror who hadn't a Galleon to his name really. But she knew he was…" Olivia hesitates, then says, her voice choked up. "She knew he was my mate, and when I left for London, she made certain I had money, whether or not my father agreed." 

"So you lied to me." Blaise feels cold and empty inside thinking about it. Most of his life he's had only his mother, up until school when he'd found himself in Slytherin. "Told me I was a bastard, that my father didn't even know me. _Why?_ " He doesn't understand any of this. "It wouldn't have hurt you to let me know."

"It's more complicated than you might think," his mother says quietly. "When your father died--" She leans forward, sets her glass on the coffee table again. She runs her hands over her face. "I can't explain to you what it's like for a Veela to lose their mate, Blaise. It's as if part of your soul's been ripped out, and you never love the same way again." She looks up at him. "I'd never wish it on you. I'd hoped…" She breathes out, presses her fingers to her lips. "Casual sex is so much easier for the likes of us."

And that's something Blaise doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to face. "You loved Andy." He thinks of Andrew Curtiss, whom his mother had married when Blaise was six. Andy had adored Blaise, had been the closest thing he'd had to a father until he'd died when Blaise was nine. Blaise remembers his mother's grief, the way she'd cried for weeks until it felt as if there were no more tears left in the world. 

Olivia's silent, and then she nods. "I had enough left in me," she says. "I could love one more man. Never like your father. Christopher took most of my heart when he came back, already dying from the curse that'd destroy him a few days later." She closes her eyes, her fingers are clenched so tightly together that the bones of her hand are defined. "And then I met Andrew, and even if it was a pale shadow of what I had with your father, he still made me happy." Her eyes flutter open; she looks at Blaise. "And when he was gone, I had nothing more. I kept the rest of my heart for you. Not the others."

They meant nothing. That's what she means, Blaise knows. The string of lovers, the short marriages to older, much wealthier men. Sometimes Blaise has never understood his mother, as much as he loves her. She frightens him in a way.

Blaise rubs the back of his neck, his fingers dipping beneath his collar. He doesn't know what to do, what to think. "How did my father die?"

His mother glances away. She pulls her bare feet up on the sofa, tucking them beneath her. She looks smaller than she is. "He was struck by a hex. I never knew what it was, not exactly. But he'd done something stupid, carried out a bloody job for my father whom Christopher, like a fool, was always trying to impress, always trying to make amends with." Olivia runs a finger over the arm of the sofa, her perfectly oval, perfectly scarlet fingernail sliding across the upholstery. "I never forgave Daddy for his part in it, you know. Not until he kept you from…" She gestures towards Blaise's head. "He redeemed himself this summer. At least somewhat."

"And Gawain Robards?" Blaise meets his mother's gaze, and he sees the flicker of anger that she tamps down. 

"So your source of information comes out." Olivia's voice grows cold; Blaise can almost hear the rustle of feathers, the rasp of annoyance beneath the chill. 

He doesn't look away from her. "Someone owed me the truth."

Olivia's mouth tightens. "I was only trying to keep you safe."

"From what?" Blaise demands, but his mother doesn't have an answer for him. He knew she wouldn't. "This is bloody rubbish, and you know it." And he's on his feet, his anger swelling again. 

Blaise is almost at the door when his mother says, "Your grandfather knows more." He stops, his back to her, waiting. "There are things," Olivia says quietly, and Blaise can hear the creak of the sofa as she stands, "that my father's never told me. Things I didn't want to know. That I still don't want to know." And then she's beside him, her hand on his back, and Blaise feels so bloody young. So bloody tired. "If you want to know more, then ask him. Perhaps he'll be willing to tell you things he thought better hidden from me."

"Are you lying to me again?" Blaise asks, and he can't look at her. He doesn't trust himself. 

"No." His mother's voice is a soft whisper against his cheek, and her arms slip around him, holding him tight. 

It's not as if Blaise hasn't known she's been holding secrets. His whole life has been a steady stream of them. Things he looked away from, things better left unsaid, things he wasn't to question. But this feels different, as if there's something intrinsically him that his mother has tucked away, keep from his knowledge. And Blaise isn't certain he can forgive her this. Nor if he wants to, if he's honest. 

So he steps away, untangles himself from his mother's grasp. It feels oddly final, like he's severing some connection between them forged in his childhood, linked by her lies.

"We'll speak later, Mother," Blaise says, and he reaches for the doorknob. 

He's just opened the door when his mother says, "He _is_ your mate, you know. Durant, I mean."

Blaise looks back at her, silent. 

Olivia bites her lip, and she folds her arms, her fingers gripping her bare elbows. "Be careful, please. Whatever's to come…" She hesitates, and her forehead furrows, without concern for future wrinkles. "Promise me, Blaise. Don't do what I did. Don't let anyone hurt him." Her voice cracks. "It'll only bring suffering for you."

"I'll do what I can," Blaise says after a moment. He hasn't any intention of telling Jake any of this. It'd be madness to, Blaise knows that full well. Whatever this is between him and Jake, it's nothing but sex. Brilliant, amazing, incredible sex. Nothing more. Jake's made that bloody well clear, and Blaise is going to respect that. Not trap him with some idiocy about him being Blaise's Veela mate. He draws in a deep breath and nods towards Olivia. Her face falls. She knows him far too well. "Goodbye, Mother." 

And Blaise closes the door behind him.

***

"I can't believe you let him get to you." Draco whirls on Harry the moment Harry's office door shuts.

Draco'd been pale and shaking when they landed at the Ministry Apparition Point. Somehow they'd managed to get into a lift, walk through several corridors, greet fellow Aurors. It'd been a blur to Harry, really. He'd wanted to put his bloody fist through Nicholas Lyndon's smarmy, entitled face. Still does, if he's honest. And then burn the whole fucking building down around the bastard shit.

Harry blinks, focuses on Draco's fists which are clenching and uncleaning. His hands are bone white, bloodless. He looks up, takes in Draco's battered face, and Harry knows then that he'll do whatever it takes to keep Draco safe. From his uncle. From Nicholas sodding Lyndon. From the whole of British wizarding society, if he has to. "I will murder him, Draco, if he so much as harms a hair on your head."

Harry means it. He's certain of it. He doesn't care what Marchbanks has said about him, how unstable any of this makes him look. He will fucking end Lyndon if he threatens Draco with harm. He has no other choice.

"You idiot." Draco's wrapping and unwrapping something around his fingers; when Harry looks closer, he realises it's a hair tie from Draco's pocket. Draco's looking away, his face paler than usual. "You can't threaten someone like Nicholas. He's a vicious, _vicious_ bastard. And that's before you cross him."

Harry plants his feet, his jaw jutting. He knows he's being stubborn, but he doesn't car. Not with his anger still pounding through his body, not with the wisps of memories Draco'd slipped and let him see still echoing in his mind. "They're all like that, bullies. I make a point of not letting them win." He _will_ take Nicholas Lyndon down, however he has to do it. Whether it happens on this case, or the next. He will destroy that fucking bastard. Just for hurting Draco. Just for making the man he loves feel so overwhelmingly worthless. It'd been almost too much for Harry to see, those glimpses of Draco's life with that shit. He hadn't been able to bear it. He still isn't. Not really. 

"I'd heard Gryffindors went a bit mental for their friends, but this is extreme." Draco frowns at Harry. "How will it help me if you're in Azkaban for killing him?"

"You're not my friend, Draco." Harry steps closer, crowding Draco a bit against the desk. "You're my lover. My _everything._ Harry wants to impress upon Draco how concerned he is, how much he's willing to do anything. He also thinks he might kiss him, if the chance presents itself. When Draco flinches, however, Harry backs off immediately, palms coming up and out to indicate that he means no harm. "Hey. Sorry." He looks away, his anger starting to ebb away. 

Draco awkwardly turns the flinch into a shrug, then brushes his hair away from his face. "That's all right. I'm just a little wound tight."

Harry thinks that is the understatement of the century. Draco looks like he's about to jump out of his skin. Harry can only imagine what it must have been like for Draco to walk into that room and see that bastard again. He remembers the first time he'd met Lyndon, in the Leaky, back before New York happened, and how viciously nasty he'd been to Draco. Harry wonders if Lyndon will file another complaint against him; to be honest, he doesn't fucking care.

Fuck, but Harry's itching to punch the arrogant little shit again. He takes a deep breath, tries to focus on Draco.

"Is there anything I can do?" Harry doesn't want to make it worse, not the way he had yesterday. He wants to be close to Draco right now, but he knows it might not be the time. Not being able to stroke his hair, to hold him is like a physical ache. Lyndon struck at the marrow of everything sacred to Harry; his physical need to touch Draco is heightened by the separation between them last night, but he also knows Draco needs his space. So this time, Harry waits, poised for Draco to give him a cue.

Draco gives him a thin smile. "Well, for starters, you could stop setting things on fire." His gaze drops pointedly to Harry's desk; tiny tendrils of smoke are starting to come from the edges of a notepad. 

Harry nods, grabbing the pad of paper and waving it about. He drops it into the bin beneath his desk. "Okay. I'll try." It seems pointless to explain that Harry never means to start anything smouldering, much less burning. It probably doesn't matter anyhow, Harry thinks. He wonders if the chair in Wilton Hansford had gone up entirely in flames. He's a faint sense of satisfaction that perhaps the fire brigade had been called out for it. Not that he'll tell Draco that. It seems the sort of thing Draco would disapprove of, really.

"And you might stop making death threats against my ex," Draco mutters. "Although he fucking deserves them."

"Right. Duly noted." Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, keeping himself in a restrained, non threatening posture. He breathes out, trying to stay as calm as he can. "Anything else?"

Draco steps forward then, his grey eyes dark with pupils dilated. He bites his lip, sizing Harry up. His gaze slips towards Harry's office door, and something about the way he's sizing it up makes Harry's heart skip a beat. 

They haven't been in here alone for ages, and there's no one outside in the incident room. "Draco," Harry says softly, and Draco's cheeks flush. 

"It's ridiculous, really," Draco says. "And I shouldn't be rewarding you for such idiotic behaviour." Draco swallows, and his hand reaches out, settles against Harry's chest. "But I'm not going to deny it was stupidly--and I _do_ mean stupidly, Harry, let me make that absolutely clear--but still." His tongue drags across his lip, leaving it pink and wet, and oh so fucking kissable. "It was stupidly hot." Draco's thumb works its way through the placket of Harry's shirt, brushes Harry's chest ever so lightly. "And, Merlin help me, evidently I find Neanderthal behaviour rather arousing."

"Do you?" Harry can't tear his gaze from Draco's face. 

"It's terrible of me," Draco murmurs, and he looks away. "But I suppose if you wanted to apologise for your awful behaviour…" Draco's face flushes even more, delightfully so, and Harry can't feel ashamed of what he's done. Not really. Not when Draco glances back over at him from beneath lowered lashes, and says, "You could also fuck me."

A shiver of want runs through Harry. But at Harry's raised eyebrows, Draco wraps his arms around himself, his body posture shrinking in on itself. "But you don't have to," Draco says, and his voice grows sharper as he steps away.

Just for the insecurity, the self-protection, the uncertainty of Draco right now, right here, Harry would gladly go back to that sodding office and pound Nicholas Lyndon into a bloody pulp. But that's not what's required now to fix things. Harry has to work harder, be different. To try to meet Draco on a different ground, in a better way. He needs to focus on Draco's needs and not just on his own desire to lash out, to lay claim to everything there is to love about Draco Lucius Malfoy, whatever his imbecilic ex might think.

"Oh, I want to. Believe me." Harry comes closer, waits, then lays a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder. And he knows what he needs to give Draco, what step he needs to take. He looks around the office, and he thinks about the first time they'd shagged here, the way he'd laid Draco over his desk, rutted up against him until they were both gasping, their bodies shuddering together. Harry reaches out, lets his fingers slide across Draco's bruised cheek, smooth back Draco's hair. He breathes out, his heart filled with love for this maddening, beautiful man standing in front of him. "But maybe," Harry whispers, and his fingers slip through Draco's silken hair, "you also want to fuck me?"

The smile Draco gives him is brilliant this time. "I hadn't realised that was on offer."

"It's always on offer," Harry says, and his heart swells at the cocky gleam in Draco's eyes. This is his Draco again, sharp and with edges, not the quiet, unsettled Draco he'd seen standing in Nicholas Lyndon's office. "I'd let you get a leg over any time, Draco Malfoy."

"Well, I rather think that's Unspeakable Malfoy to you," Draco says, and his shoulders relax. "Inspector Potter."

"Kinky." Harry raises an eyebrow at him, his mouth quirking up into a smile of his own. "See anything you'd like, Unspeakable Malfoy?" He gestures to his body, wiggles his hips, as Draco rakes his eyes up and down Harry's length. It's unfamiliar, being the one under scrutiny. Harry finds it exciting.

"Perhaps." Draco takes his wand out, locks the door with a spell and adds a Muffliato after a quick pause. He pulls a chair out, sits in it, his eyes fixed on Harry. The hunger in them emboldens Harry, makes him want to do anything to please Draco. "But I think, perhaps, I'd have to see what's on offer without all those clothes in the way."

Oh, and what that suggestion does to Harry. "Yeah?" he asks, his voice catching, and Draco nods, leaning back in the chair, his thighs spread wide. 

"I'd like a show, Potter," Draco says, and Harry feels his prick throb at the command in Draco's tone. Draco needs this, Harry thinks, needs to reclaim his own authority, to wash away those memories of Lyndon pushing his boundaries--crossing them, really. And this is something Harry can give to him. Wants to give to him.

Whilst Draco watches, Harry shrugs off his jacket, then unbuttons his shirt, letting it slide from his shoulders, fall loosely to the floor. Draco motions for him to continue. Harry toys with the button of his trousers, hearing Draco inhale sharply as he pulls the zip down. Harry's prick is already half-hard and he palms himself through his trousers. He bends down and unlaces his trainers, which Draco must have Scourgified when he wasn't looking. They're almost blindingly clean when he sees them up close. He toes them off, kicking them to the side, then he straightens up again, adjusting his glasses with a quick finger to the bridge of his nose. "This what you like?"

Draco's fingers slide over the curve of his own prick, swelling against the flies his trousers. He licks his lips. "Yeah. But turn around. Let me see all of you."

Harry turns, letting Draco watch him. It's odd, he thinks, that he's only now letting Draco see him like this, letting Draco watch his body in this way. He likes it. He's always liked bottoming, especially for Draco, it's just that he also loves being inside of Draco, watching him clench around Harry's prick. But this is exciting too, he thinks, and there's a flutter of nervousness in his stomach.

"More, Harry," Draco says, a bit hoarsely, and Harry lets his trousers slip down in a rustle of lightweight wool. He's not wearing pants, and Draco swears softly when the trousers hit the floor, the buckle of Harry's belt clanging against the hard carpet, and Harry's arse is cold in the bare air. Harry's prick stands to attention, but still he faces away from Draco, letting him look, his neck prickling with nervousness.

And then Harry hears Draco stand up, hears him walk closer. Draco's hand grips Harry's arsecheek, his breath hot on Harry's neck. "I like this very much, Inspector Potter." His fingers slide over Harry's skin, dipping into the warmth of Harry's crease. "But I think I'd like it even better if you sprawled across your bloody desk."

"Would you?" Harry's barely breathing. His skin feels as if it's on fire; he's missed this, missed having Draco here with him, pushing against proper expectations, knowing that anyone could be standing outside that door. As much as he loves fucking Draco into the mattress, twined together in their bed at Grimmauld, there's something raw and erotic about being here, feeling Draco's fingers brushing his hole, knowing they're walking a dangerous line. His stomach flutters, and he's missed the thrill of this. Harry wonders if that makes him a bloody perv. 

"Please, Harry," Draco whispers, and it's the need in his voice that makes Harry turn, catching Draco's mouth with his. They kiss, hungrily, angrily, all of the emotion they can't express filling the desperate nips and insistent press of their mouths and tongues. When Draco pushes against him, still clothed, the hard length of his prick presses above Harry's hipbone. "Desk?"

"Fuck, yes," Harry says against Draco's mouth, his hands sliding along Draco's hips, thumbs hooking into Draco's trousers as Draco pivots Harry, walking him back to the desk, kissing him all the while. Harry complies. The edge of the desk presses into his arse, and Harry hefts himself up on it, letting Draco settle right between his legs. He drapes his arms around Draco's shoulders, his hands resting against Draco's back. "You know anyone could find us," he murmurs against Draco's mouth.

"No they can't." Draco bites Harry's lower lip, then soothes it with kiss. "I put a notice-me-not that will give them a sudden urge to find the loo."

Harry huffs a quick, involuntary laugh. "And that won't be obvious. In a building full of Aurors."

Draco's look is positively feral as he unbuttons his shirt, pulls it out of his trousers. "It doesn't have to last for long. Besides, the loos are always busy, so the line might keep them." He pushes at Harry's chest. "Down, Potter." His eyes are bright, hot.

Harry lies back and stretches across his desk, reaching awkwardly over his head to snake a hand into his drawer for the lube he keeps stashed there. When he slaps the phial into Draco's hand, Draco shakes his head, frowns.

"Been shagging people in your office, then?" Draco looks mock offended, but beneath it is a question. Harry can hear the faint tremor of it, and he curls up using his abdomen, kisses Draco, his teeth dragging across Draco's lip. 

"Only one person," Harry whispers. "And I'm really hoping he'll give me a reason to stash more lube."

"You're a wretch," Draco says, but he's smiling again, his hand smoothing across Harry's chest, down his belly. Harry wonders what he looks like here, as he settles back down, his shoulder blades pressing into the papers on his desk, wearing nothing but a pair of purple and green socks. Still Draco doesn't seem to mind, judging by the way he's looking at Harry, and Harry hooks his heels across the edge of his desk, spreading his thighs wide. 

Draco waves his wand, casts the preparatory spells, and Harry feels the familiar emptiness, the strangely tingling sensation behind his bollocks. He takes his glasses off, tucking them on the side of the desk. Draco's blurry at this distance, and Harry misses the sharp focus of his face.

Harry makes up for it by stroking Draco's bare chest with his hand, using touch to compensate for his other senses. Draco's shirt hangs open, but his cuffs are still buttoned. Harry holds Draco's taut forearm through the thin cotton fabric of his sleeve, his fingers shifting as his anticipation builds. He wants Draco inside of him, so fucking badly he can barely stand it. Draco thumbs open the placket of his trousers, and Harry feels Draco's weight shift, then the velvet softness of Draco's prick is against his inner thigh. Harry groans softly. 

"Fuck, you look amazing like this," Draco says, and there's true wonder in the posh tones of his voice.

"Anything for you, Unspeakable Malfoy," Harry arches his neck, looks up at Draco, hoping the effect is hot and not disturbing. He can't tell without his glasses, but he pulls Draco closer to him with one leg, using core strength to reel him in.

Draco swats at Harry's thigh. "Needy, Inspector Potter?" But he's laughing a little, and Harry wants him to lean down, to kiss him with those perfect pink lips of his.

"Yes," Harry says, and his voice sounds a little breathy, to his surprise. "I need you to fuck me." And he does. Desperately. It's been too long, he thinks. He's wanted this more than he knew, and he wonders why he's waited to ask Draco for this, why he feels as if he shouldn't, as if he can't. 

Draco inhales sharply. "Well." His voice shakes, if only a little, but Harry catches it, and it makes his heart sing that Draco wants him that much. "Can't keep the good inspector waiting, then." He flips open the phial, and Harry assumes he's coating his fingers. His suspicion is confirmed when he feels the press of Draco's thumb at his entrance. "Tell me what feels good."

The first stretch is a surprise, and Harry's stomach twitches. He resists the urge to squirm with it, letting Draco enter his body slowly, one finger first, then another before he slowly pumps them in and out. "You're doing brilliantly," Draco murmurs, and he's watching Harry, his gaze fixed on his fingers, slipping deeper into Harry's body. "You're so bloody good at this, Harry." 

Harry relaxes, opening and trying to let himself remember this is normal. _You've done this,_ he tells himself. _With Draco even._

When Harry's body is looser, Draco adds a third. The stretch is a lot, and Harry grips Draco's arm, willing him to slow down. "Too much?" Draco asks, pausing.

Harry shakes his head, then breathes out, pushing his arse down onto Draco's hand and taking his long fingers to the last knuckle. His body's more fluid now and the burn is gone. He feels the stretch still, but his arse is getting used to the sensation. It's beginning to feel amazing, and then Draco crooks his fingers and Harry nearly comes off the desk with a shout.

"Oh, like that, do we?" Harry can hear the laughter in Draco's voice.

"Fuck, yes, Unspeakable Malfoy." Harry doesn't know why he's still playing along with this asinine game, but he's enjoying the tension it provokes in Draco. "But I still want more." He looks up at Draco, his chest heaving ever so slightly. He licks his lips. "I want your hard cock."

And at that, Draco swears, everything else forgotten, and his hands slide out of Harry. Harry splays his knees, his ankles on Draco's hips. Draco grabs one of Harry's feet and swings it up to his shoulder. "This okay?" When Harry grunts in affirmation, Draco grabs the other one, and then Harry is bent in two as Draco pushes forward a little. "Let me just get the right angle."

Harry feels Draco's hand and then the smooth press of his prick, the head nudging at Harry's entrance. For a moment, Harry's breathless, waiting to see, and then Draco's prick enters his body and oh, but the slide is long and good. Draco leans over him, bending him even more, so much so that Harry can barely draw in a breath, as his prick lodges deep inside of him. 

"Fuck but you feel amazing." Draco's hair is falling over his forehead, catching on the dampness of his cheek. His skin is flushed, and there's something about him still being dressed that makes Harry's body ache with each brush of his shirt against the back of Harry's thighs, the scratch of his trousers along the curve of Harry's arse. 

"Oh" Harry says. He draws in a ragged breath. "Fuck me, baby," he chokes out, forgetting to call Draco by his title, forgetting everything but the slide of Draco's body deep inside, the huffs of his breath and the rocking of the desk beneath them. "Please--"

Harry's thighs are straining as Draco pumps in and out, his hips rocking into Harry's body. The slow stretch of his long prick is delicious, opening Harry in ways that he's forgotten he could open. Harry doesn't know why they don't do this more often--Draco's brutally effective in his rhythm and his stamina's fantastic, and Harry loves the way Draco feels inside of him, thick and hot with each slow stroke. Draco holds Harry folded underneath him, their bodies rocking in sympathy. Harry pushes himself up on his elbows, desperate to press Draco's prick deeper. His own cock bounces against his belly, hard and ruddy, the head slick and wet as it slides across Harry's skin.

"Merlin, you are so beautiful when you're getting fucked," Draco says, and Harry feels oddly pleased. If this is what it takes to bring them back together, to let Draco know how much Harry wants him to be in charge, then he's fine with it.

"I love it when you fuck me," Harry says, and he means it. He lets his head drop back, and he groans, trying to widen his hips more. He needs Draco inside of him, needs to feel this, needs Draco to claim him, to make him his again. "Come on. Harder--" Harry's voice rises, pleads. "I need--" He breaks off in a groan, his body shaking with Draco's thrusts.

Draco leans in, pushing Harry's knees almost to his chest, and then there's nothing but the waves of pleasure, shifting and insistent press of Draco's prick deep within Harry, shivering Harry's body from inside. Harry stretches his arms overhead to brace himself on the desk, fingers curling around the desk's edge, and Draco's plowing into Harry, shouting his name, and Harry's pushing back against him, his body on fire with need. It's only a few, short strokes before Harry's prick pops, spurting between them, spunk dripping all over Harry's belly.

"Oh, you didn't. Oh my God. _Harry._ " Draco's voice sounds wrecked, and then he's coming, inside of Harry, his hips shuddering against Harry's arse, nearly ruining the already oversensitised nerve endings of Harry's body. It's too much and it's fantastic, all at the same time. Harry knows that Draco's claiming him, and he gives him everything he has.

Then Draco's weight eases off of him and his spunk's dripping from Harry's hole as he pulls out. Draco lies over him on the desk, and Harry pulls him into an embrace, his own body still throbbing. 

"Fuck, that was fucking amazing." Draco's throat sounds raw. "I should have taken you to investigate Nicholas earlier."

Harry kisses him, tangling his fingers in Draco's silken hair. "You're mine. And I'm yours." A wave of possessiveness goes through Harry, and his kiss deepens, his tongue sweeping against Draco's, teeth dragging across Draco's lip. "Mine," he whispers again.

Draco smiles against Harry's mouth. "Yeah. But it's nice to have a bit of tension to get that confirmed. I need to try harder next time."

"Fuck off," Harry says, kissing his boyfriend harder. "You can have this any time you want." He lets his hands drift down Draco's back, across the rumpled cotton of Draco's shirt. Or Zabini's Harry supposes it actually is, and that thought makes him angry, at least a little bit. He doesn't want to think of Draco dressing in Zabini's clothes, Zabini's scent lingering on Draco's skin. 

"Hey," Draco murmurs, and he's looking down at Harry with a frown. "It's not like that."

And Harry realises Draco's read his thoughts. He looks away, his face heating. "I know," he says quietly. "But…"

Draco catches Harry's face, turns it back to look at him. "You've nothing to fear on that front."

Harry nods, but he doesn't say anything. He knows he's being foolish. He sighs, then murmurs, "I'm just afraid of losing you."

"Well, you won't." Draco's stroking Harry's cheek, his knuckles light against Harry's skin. "But I have to be your equal, Harry. Promise me that."

"You are." Harry catches Draco's wrist, turns to kiss the soft skin just above his open cuff. "I love you."

Draco's looking at him, a faint furrow between his brows. "Is love enough?" he asks, his voice soft, uncertain. "My parents had love, and look how that turned out."

They're silent, both of them looking at each other, not sure of what to say. And then Draco stands, turns away. "We should get dressed," he says. "Before someone needs us."

 _I need you,_ Harry wants to say, but he doesn't. Instead he nods and sits up, casting a cleansing charm on both of them. He slides off the desk, reaches for his clothes, drawing them back on as Draco buttons his shirt, pulls his hair up in a knot, secures it with a hair tie. Harry's just pushed his feet in his trainers, bending to lace them when there's a sharp knock on his door. 

"Potter." It's Gawain Robards.

Draco and Harry exchange a look. Harry pushes himself to his feet, just as Draco drops the last of the charms on the door. It swings open. Harry catches a glimpse of Whitaker behind Gawain, of Hermione and Parkinson coming into the incident room. They look unhappy. Stunned, even, and every Auror sense Harry has is on high alert. 

"What's wrong?" Harry strides out of his office, past Gawain and into the incident room, Draco on his heels. He looks at Whitaker. Her face is pale, but her gaze flicks back to the Head Auror. Harry turns to Gawain. "Did something--"

"Barachiel Dee is gone," Gawain says, his voice tight, his mouth a thin line. "Along with Muriel Burke."

Draco frowns at him. He's still doing up his cuffs, but no one seems to even notice. "What the hell do you mean?"

"He means," Hermione says from behind Harry, and they all turn to look at her. She's shaking. "He means they're gone. Every last one of them." She looks at Harry. "He's stolen them, Harry."

And Harry's heart sinks. 

"The Dementors are gone from Azkaban." Hermione's face is blank. Grey. "Barachiel Dee's taken them all."

"Fuck," is all that Harry can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> I should be posting more regularly through December. The next scheduled installment is December 24. Stay tuned!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luxembourg throws down, Harry and Draco continue to fret, Hermione and Ron step in, and Blaise does not wish to seem too eager. Oh, and Pansy wrinkles her nose. That's important, too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a day-late but no-less-heartfelt present for all of my readers. Happy Monday if you're not celebrating, and Happy Christmas if you are. I was surprised this week by my partner in crime and lawfully wedded spouse, noeon, gifting me with an anniversary trip to Universal Studios. I have been wandering the pavements of Diagon Alley, waving my wand, being taught spells by strangers, drinking Butterbeer and Lemon Squash, eating jacket potatoes at the Knight Bus, watching Celestina Warbeck sing, and taking the Hogwarts Express to my little heart's content. It's been brilliant. <3
> 
> sassy_cissa did an amazing job with this chapter, waking up early on CHRISTMAS to beta read despite having Star Wars tickets later in the day. She is a genuine treasure. *blows kisses to cissa* We managed to embarrass chibi and bixie last time by mentioning them, so we're doing it again: Merry Squidmas, darlings! And blessings and hope and light for all of you, my dear readers, and happy almost 2018! If you had told me in 2016 that I would post over 860,000 words in the Tales from the Special Branch series in 2017, I never would have believed it. It's already longer than _The Lord of the Rings_ plus _The Hobbit_ , or Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_. (WTF. I mean, really. WTF.) This would not have been possible without your enthusiasm for the story, your diligent reading, your amazingly insightful plot analyses, your lovely comments, and your general awesomeness. A story cannot exist without readers, and this story has been very, very lucky its readership. Thank you, everyone! Now, on with the plot!

Harry shifts in his chair, his arse sore and aching, his stomach fluttering as he remembers how brilliant Draco had felt buried so deep inside him only two hours ago. The thought of it makes his breath catch ever so, and he glances down the long conference table, hoping no one's noticed. As far as he can tell, they haven't. Instead, he's surrounded by grim faces, Kingsley at the head, flanked by Croaker on his right and Albert Proudfoot, Head of the DMLE, on his left. Gawain's sat beside Proudfoot, and Harry's a few seats down, between Bertie Aubrey and Richard Mulgraves from the Wizengamot Administrative Services. Hermione's across the table from him, her mouth anxious, her shoulders tight. To be honest, Harry's glad the Dementor issue had been dropped on the Department of Mysteries and not him; the amount of paperwork Hermione's going to have to fill out will be ridiculous, he's certain.

"So," Kingsley says, and his gaze is fixed on Nadia Daifallah, down at the other end of the table, flanked by grim-looking members of the Luxembourgian delegation. "We have a fucking cock-up on our hands."

"One might say that." The look Nadia returns is equally even, equally furious to the Minister's. "I do find it interesting that the moment the ICW decides to take control of the Dementor issue, this happens." 

Kingsley's nostrils flare. "I can assure you that neither Barachiel Dee nor Muriel Burke were working under orders from any Ministry department." He glances at Croaker. "Saul?"

"As if we'd spirit those creatures away." Croaker leans forward, his elbows on the table. He's in damage control mode, Harry can tell, his smile tight, his voice a bit too smooth. "Barachiel Dee has always been a wild card. We knew that when we brought him in on this. Muriel Burke, however…" Croaker frowns a little. "Perhaps she was Imperiused."

Not bloody likely, Harry thinks, and when he glances across the table at Hermione, he thinks she agrees. Muriel Burke, like every other Unspeakable of her rank, has been trained to throw off an Imperius. If she did this, it was out of her own free will. 

Nadia just raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. She drums her long fingers against the file jacket in front of her. "And have you spoken with Jake Durant and Draco Malfoy? Were either of them involved with this little stunt?"

"Draco was with me for most of the day," Harry says, slouched in his chair. He knows he ought to sit up, be more professional, but he doesn't want to be here as it is. He looks down at Nadia. "And Jake was working with Althea Whitaker. Neither one of them had the time to pop over to Azkaban for a prison break."

At that, Nadia gives Harry a cool but amused glance. "Your defence of your team is admirable, Harry. And yet we can't ignore the fact that they might have been involved in prior planning."

"I'm quite certain neither of them were," Gawain says. He turns in his chair, and Harry thinks he looks beaten down, tired. To be honest, Harry wouldn't want to be the Head Auror right now. Proudfoot may still be the embattled Head of the DMLE, despite all of Luxembourg's recent pushing to have him ousted, but he's always been an empty figurehead at best. From what Harry's heard, he'd spent most of July hidden away in Cornwall on a forced holiday at Kingsley's demand whilst Luxembourg investigated the Auror issues at Azkaban. Proudfoot only just returned to London a few days ago. Harry knows most of the responsibility for all of this bollocks is coming down on Gawain instead. Not that it's surprising, to be honest. If there's one thing Proudfoot's always been good at, it's sidestepping blame and avoiding consequence. Same for Mulgraves. They're not Auror material, either one of them; they're politicians at their cores, both of them having a deep penchant for saving their own skins at the end of the day, whomever else they have to throw on the sword instead. And from the way they're both looking at Gawain, Harry suspects the Head Auror's the person they intend to finger for this particular fuck-up, whether or not it's true. 

Still, Gawain smooths the front of his robe down, and says, his voice grim but firm, "Neither Unspeakable Durant nor Unspeakable Malfoy had any reason to be part of this removal of the Dementors from British Auror custody. Every piece of evidence we've collected this afternoon with the help of Sergeant Hassan Shah indicates that Muriel Burke and Barachiel Dee acted alone, without the assistance of anyone within the ranks of our Aurors and Unspeakables."

One of the other Luxembourgian officials--Thygesen, Harry thinks his name is--clears his throat and says, "You'll forgive me, Head Auror, if we don't take your assurances at face value, given your force's culpability in other matters under our investigation."

There's a tension that ripples across the room. Harry catches the twitch of Gawain's jaw; Proudfoot glances away, a tight smile on his face, whilst Croaker studies the line of DMLE chiefs, his face impassive. Harry wants to punch him, really. They're here because of his department's mangling of this. The Auror force had nothing to do with this one; Croaker was responsible for looking after Dee. And from the little that Draco's said about what's gone on amongst the Dementors recently, Harry's not that bloody surprised that Dee pulled something along these lines. He wonders if Pettigrew went with him. He must have, given that there aren't any reports yet of Dementors remaining in Azkaban. But Harry still has a hard time thinking of that ratty bastard as a Dementor. He'd watched Peter Pettigrew die, after all. He still doesn't understand how he ended up at Azkaban. There's a part of Harry that wonders if Draco's hallucinating having seen him. The same for Bellatrix Lestrange. That's not something Harry's brought up to Gawain, and he as no bloody intention of it, to be honest. He doesn't want Draco undergoing psychological testing with the Mind Healers at St Mungo's. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. Either Draco's seen them or he hasn't but he thinks he has, and Harry doesn't want to push that issue. Not right now at least. Not with how fragile things are still between them at the moment, his twinging arse notwithstanding.

Kingsley heaves a sigh. "Both Durant and Malfoy have been spoken to by Wizengamot solicitors within the past two hours, Mathias. We're absolutely satisfied neither of them gave any assistance to Barachiel Dee in this regard."

Thygesen frowns. He's an older man with thinning grey hair cut close to his head, his pale cheeks flushed in the warmth of the conference room. "We'll want to speak to them ourselves. I'm sure you'll understand." He pauses, then says, "I'd also like to question Constable Zabini, given his close relation to Dee." His eyes narrow, his gaze fixed on Kingsley. "Again, I'm certain you won't mind."

Kingsley looks at Gawain, then at Harry. "Will this be a problem?"

Harry shakes his head, trying to hide his unhappiness at the prospect, as Gawain says evenly, "The Auror force would be more than happy to accommodate the delegation's request."

They won't be, of course, but what else can they do? Luxembourg has the whole Ministry over a barrel right now, and they know it, the bastards. Harry's even heard rumours lately of sanctions and censure by the ICW, or even the prospect of being removed from the confederation itself. No one wants that to happen, even the most pro-Britain of wizards. It's impossible for a magical government to exist within the global wizarding economy without ICW membership. Even MACUSA toe the line, as much as they try to push the ICW's boundaries from time to time.

When Kingsley glances over at Croaker, the Chief Unspeakable hesitates. He looks annoyed, Harry thinks. Luxembourg doesn't seem to care. "Fine," Croaker says, scowling. "I doubt you'll find anything different in Durant and Malfoy's statements than what our lot have supplied." His gaze flicks towards Mulgraves. "Right, Richard?"

Mulgraves looks up from whatever it is he's been scrawling across a notepad. "Given how thorough our questioning was, anticipating Mr Thygesen's request, I would say the statements should match quite well."

"Even under Veritaserum?" Thygesen leans forward, looking a bit too eager for Harry's liking. Harry sits up in alarm, remembering Draco's allergy to Veritaserum. If anyone thinks Harry's acquiescing to that, they can go fuck themselves. Harry doesn't care if he has to argue down Kingsley himself.

Nadia frowns over at Thygesen. "Mathias, we haven't discussed that."

"It seems a rather rational option, however," Thygesen says, and he barely gives Nadia a glance. "There'd be no question of their involvement, after all."

Harry's shaking his head, his fists clenched on his thighs beneath the table. "You can't give Draco Veritaserum," he starts to say, but Saul Croaker cuts him off with a harsh laugh. Harry looks over at Hermione, a bit desperate, and she frowns. _Draco's allergy,_ Harry mouths at Hermione, and her eyes widen in realisation. She nods, twitches a finger at him that he knows is meant to tell him to wait.

"Are we seriously discussing," Croaker asks, his voice deadly quiet, "the use of Veritaserum on two Unspeakables, one of whom is associated with MACUSA rather than the British Ministry? Because if so, the very thought that you might think either I or Tom Graves to be bloody fool enough to entrust you lot with our Unspeakables' minds is preposterous. Doing so would constitute a violation of national security--"

"Are you trying to hide things from the ICW, then?" Thygesen asks, and his face is sharp and fierce. "I would remind you that, given your status as a member country, we have every right- to take such action should we see fit."

Croaker's apoplectic with rage. Spots of bright pink rise up on his cheeks. "Not without express authorisation from the Supreme Mugwump, you won't, you bloody cretin."

"Saul," Kingsley says, a bit sharply. He shakes his head. "Enough." The room falls silent, but Croaker's shoulders are high, and his fingers drum a staccato beat against the slick wood of the tabletop.

"I'm sorry," Hermione says, turning towards Kingsley, "I really do have to add my concern over this matter to the Chief Unspeakable's. Particularly with Malfoy currently undergoing Unspeakable training, there are confidential procedures he's been instructed on, none of which the ICW has legal oversight regarding." And here she shoots Thygesen a vicious look, one that Harry knows means she's beyond narked off. He almost feels sorry for Thygesen, but it fades. Quickly. "Not to mention the possibility of a potentially fatal reaction--Unspeakable Malfoy has a medically verified allergic reaction to Veritaserum. I'd be more than happy to provide Ministry authentication for that; it's been in Malfoy's personnel file since Auror training."

The Minister sits quietly for a moment, his knuckles pressed to his mouth, a frown furrowing his brow, his bald brown pate shining beneath the bright lights of the conference room. Kingsley sighs and looks down the table at Nadia. "Unspeakable Granger is right, you realise, even without the medical concerns. Those procedures and training methods have been decreed off limits under the ICW Treaty of 1883."

Nadia nods, and a rush of relief goes through Harry. He doesn't want Draco to be exposed to harm, and he knows his last reaction had been life-endangering. Not to mention, the last thing either he or Draco need is to have Draco reveal everything to Luxembourg under another sort of magically enhanced examination. It's not a process Harry wants Draco to be forced through, in any form. Not now, not with how they're keeping their relationship under wraps. Harry knows Gawain's not thrilled about Draco working with Seven-Four-Alpha again for that very reason; he'd pulled Harry aside just before this meeting to warn him to be a bit more fucking discreet with Draco than they'd been when he'd come into the incident room this afternoon. Harry'd just mumbled something probably incoherent in reply, unable to meet Gawain's sharp gaze, his face hot with embarrassment.

"Whilst I understand Mathias' concern," Nadia says, "I think it unnecessary to require Veritaserum or a forensically acceptable substitute from Unspeakables Malfoy and Durant at this time." She raises a hand to stop Kingsley from speaking. "However, that courtesy does not extend to Barachiel Dee or Unspeakable Burke once they're located. They must undergo rigorous examination."

Bertie Aubrey leans forward, over Harry. "Our team are working to find them as we speak."

Nadia turns a cool gaze on him. "I'd respectfully request you bring them back in. The ICW will take over that investigation. All things considered, I think it best if the British Ministry weren't involved. One doesn't know how deep something like this might go." She glances at Harry for the briefest moment, and it's like a sharp, clean stab in his gut. Nadia doesn't trust him, he realises, or any of his team. He supposes it's not surprising. Nadia's always been exactingly logical, and it only makes sense that she'd assume he might have some connection to this, given Draco and Jake's involvement with Seven-Four-Alpha over the summer and the fact that Barachiel is Blaise's grandfather. But still, he'd thought they'd had a better working relationship, he and Nadia, and Harry's starting to understand how much everything's shifted since he left his diplomatic consulting work with the ICW to come back to London.

Back to Draco. 

Harry looks down at his hands, clasped on the table. They're softer than they'd once been; he takes care of them more now because Draco likes him to. He's changed so many things in his life for Draco, and in such a short time. A month ago they'd just been shagging, or so he thought. Now he's opened up his house for the man. His heart. 

It bloody well terrifies Harry, if he's honest. He's never been brilliant at monogamy, at giving himself over to someone else. It's why he and Jake had a rule when they were dating, a provision for being apart, for letting them shag other people as long as they weren't in the same country. That'd worked for them both, really. Jake's never been good at being with one person either, whatever he might think. Jake's put most of the blame for the failure of their relationship on Harry, and Harry knows he wasn't there at the end, that he'd been the one to walk away, that he'd changed the rules on them, that he'd fallen in love with someone else. But it hadn't all been his fault. Not entirely. And sometimes Harry thinks Jake forgets that. Jake's created his own version of their history together, and that's fine, but it's not entirely true. There'd been things that Jake had fucked up as well, ways in which he'd hurt Harry that Harry'd overlooked because it'd been easier than talking about it, easier than having yet another row. Harry wonders if it's different for Jake with Zabini, if they can talk in ways Harry'd never been able to with Jake. He hopes so. It's what he has with Draco, sort of, even if Harry's utter rubbish at talking sometimes. Still, Harry wouldn't lose that for the world now, that feeling that he _could_ say things to Draco without Draco walking away from him. He thinks of last night and winces. Well. Walking away permanently, at least.

Harry glances up, his attention coming back to the conversation around him, as Nadia says, "We'll also be taking on Dolohov now." Her face is tight, her mouth a thin line. "I won't allow argument on this one, gentlemen. I expect you to release him to Luxembourg custody by the end of the week--"

"He's ours," Croaker snaps, and Nadia just looks at him evenly. 

"Under international wizarding law, the ICW is authorised to step in when prisoner abuse takes place." Nadia leans forward. Her braids brush her shoulders; Harry recognises the set of her shoulders. He's seen it before, during delegation debates in Luxembourg. She's no intention of losing this argument, that's clear. Nadia pushes a file jacket across the table, towards Croaker. "If you'd care to look at this, Chief Unspeakable?"

Croaker takes the file as it's passed down to him, nearly ripping it from Hermione's grasp. She winces, discreetly rubs her thumb over her palm. Harry catches a glimpse of blood welling up from a paper cut across the wrinkled skin. She looks up at him, then glances away as Croaker flips through the file jacket, scowling. 

"This is nonsensical," Croaker snaps, and he flings the file back down the table. Papers scatter from it, sliding across the smooth, polished wood. "None of that shite is accurate."

Harry sees Dolohov's bruised face in a photograph just before Nadia Summons the papers back. He looks over at Croaker and says, his voice quiet, "That picture looks rather accurate to me."

The room falls silent. Croaker turns a furious face towards Harry. "I think you've no idea what you're talking about, Inspector Potter."

"But I think I do." Harry glances towards Hermione; she nods at him, almost imperceptibly. At her approval, Harry relaxes. He doesn't want to be cocking things up for her. "Every time I've interviewed Antonin Dolohov in the past fortnight, he's looked like that. As if someone's beating the shit out of him, and given that he's not being held with other prisoners…" Harry trails off, lets his shrug say everything else. He looks at Nadia. "That's what you mean, isn't it?"

Nadia doesn't say anything for a moment, and then she closes the file, sets it in front of her. "Yes." She glances down the table to Kingsley. "And I have proof that the British Ministry is conducting interrogation techniques on Antonin Dolohov that have been outlawed by the ICW." Her voice is even. Strong. "I'm more than happy to bring these claims to the Supreme Mugwump himself if you'd like, Minister. You'll be aware, of course, that Mr Akingbade has never been a proponent of torture--"

"That's not what any of this is," Croaker snaps. "Kingsley, you can't seriously be considering--"

"Saul." Kingsley sounds tired, furious. "If you've gone behind my back in this investigation, I'll throw you to the bloody wolves. I swear to Merlin I will."

"Preposterous." Croaker's leaning forward over the table, his thin, crooked finger pointing towards Nadia. "This witch is grasping at anything that will discredit us. You know Luxembourg's been wanting to sanction Britain since the Wars--"

"And you've handed them the bloody rope to do so," Gawain spits out. "You old, arrogant _fool_."

Proudfoot glances between the two of them, his face crumpled in worry. "Now, lads, let's not start in on this--"

"Shut your gob, you idiot." Croaker glares at Proudfoot. "As if you've any idea what's happening here."

Harry doesn't know how any of them managed to lose the plot like this. He's never seen the men around him so angry, so bound and determined to throw the whole Ministry to the wind. He wants to point that out, but for once he keeps his mouth shut as Thygesen watches, delight written across his crepey, wrinkled face. 

"Enough." Kingsley's voice rings out. He's scowling around the table as his department heads fall silent, each one of them glaring at the others. "Hermione, would you agree with Ms Daifallah's assessment of Antonin Dolohov's condition?"

It takes Hermione a moment to answer. Harry knows she doesn't want to anger Croaker, but she doesn't want to join in his lies either. She looks over at Harry, and he gives her a small smile, doing his best to encourage her the way she had him. Hermione closes her eyes and sighs, then glances towards Kingsley. "I," she says almost hesitantly, "would agree that some of Dolohov's physical trauma has been caused by rough handling on the part of some Unspeakables." She's pointedly not looking at Croaker, who's practically vibrating in fury in his seat. Hermione rolls her quill between her fingers, a nervous habit of hers since their school days. Harry knows what this is costing her; Croaker will go after her behind closed doors. "I've included that concern in several of my recent reports." Hermione swallows, then adds, "Which may be what Ms Daifallah is referencing."

"Along with others," Nadia says. Her face softens. "Unspeakable Granger was not the only member of the Department of Mysteries to share a definite worry that the prisoner's safety was not a top priority during certain questioning protocols." 

"Circe's tits," Bertie murmurs from beside Harry, and when Harry glances over at him, Bertie looks disgusted. "At least it's not just our boys," he says, still under his breath. Harry can't help but agree, even if part of him's a bit more concerned that this sort of treatment of prisoners seems to be much more systemic than he'd thought. 

An uncomfortable silence falls over the table, broken only by the faint squeak of Kingsley's chair as he turns, pushes himself out of it. He walks over to one of the tall windows on one side of the conference room. They look out onto the Atrium below, Harry knows. Kingsley stands there for a long moment, his back to the room, his shoulders hunched beneath the pale lavender cotton of his dress shirt, his arms folded across his chest. 

"When did we lose our way?" Kingsley asks finally. He stares out over the Atrium, and Harry can see his reflection in the window, his face drawn, his mouth curving down at the corners. 

Croaker clears his throat. "National security requires--"

"Requires this?" Kingsley's voice rises. He turns, and he strides back to the table. "What do you expect to get from treatment of this sort, Saul? From _torture_?"

"Information--" Croaker's rising to his feet now.

"And have you any?" Kingsley roars; his words echo in the stunned quiet of the room. He looks around the table, his face terrible. No one answers. Even Croaker turns away. "I thought not." Kingsley sits back in his chair, runs his hands over his face before dropping them back to the table. He doesn't say anything for a moment, then he looks at Nadia. "Dolohov's yours," he says. "I'll sign whatever I need to for the transfer."

Croaker's swearing at that. "You fucking bastard--you're ruining this country like the cowardly shit you are--"

"Saul." Hermione places her hand on his arm. "You need to--"

"Don't patronise me, girl." Croaker jerks away. "I won't have it. Not from the likes of you." He shoves his chair back and stands. "I won't tolerate this sort of thing, Kingsley. I'll bring this bloody government down if I have to and take you with it." The way he's looking at Kingsley makes Harry's blood run cold. "Don't push me on this."

Kingsley just watches Croaker calmly, his palms pressed against the conference table. "Are you done?" Kingsley asks finally, and Croaker looks at him, his expression filled with vitriol, before his gaze sweeps across the table, as if they're all gnats sat around the rectangular expanse of polished wood. 

"Fuck the lot of you," Croaker says, and then he's sweeping out of the room, leaving them all in quiet shock. Mathias Thygesen looks as if Christmas morning has come; his eyes are bright and quick. The rest of the Luxembourg delegation seems a bit taken aback, soft murmurs going through their ranks. 

Nadia breathes out. "Well." 

Kingsley's already shaking his head. "My apologies," he says. "I can assure you Antonin Dolohov will be released to your custody as soon as possible." He hesitates, his gaze slipping towards Hermione who looks uncertain and unhappy. Harry feels for her. Terribly. She'll have to go back into the Department of Mysteries after all this and face Croaker. If it were him, he'd avoid it as long as possible. He knows Hermione won't, though. She'll steel herself and go down to beard the lion in his proverbial den. Kingsley sighs, and says, "Hermione, can you make certain of that?"

Hermione bites her lip, then nods. "It won't be easy, but I'll do my best." The look she gives Harry is overwhelmed. She'll be working late hours for the next few days, he suspects. Ron'll be hacked off about that, but what other choice does she have? Harry promises himself he'll do what he can to take some of the pressure of her, if he can. 

"Thank you," Kingsley says, and he glances Nadia's way. "Are we done here?"

"For now." Nadia stacks her file jackets. "I'll have the Dolohov paperwork to you in the next day or so." She's quiet for a moment, her gaze flicking towards Harry. "We'd rather make certain we have our transport options in place, given what happened last time."

Kingsley's frown deepens. "That one is on you lot."

Nadia nods. "Fair." She's still looking at Harry. He won't meet her gaze. After a moment, she looks away. "The ICW appreciates your time and consideration, Minister." She stands; the Luxembourg delegation rises with her, Thygesen looking triumphant. 

The meeting begins to break up. Harry pushes his chair back, but before he can stand, Bertie Aubrey catches his arm, holding Harry down. Harry doesn't like it; he wants to pull away, but he's too much respect for Bertie to do so. Instead he stills, looks over. "Something wrong?" Harry asks. 

Bertie hesitates, then says, "Malfoy." His moustache trembles a faint bit as he presses his lips together, then he sighs and leans forward, lowering his voice. "The boy didn't have anything to do with this, did he?"

Harry shakes his head. "Not to my knowledge." He thinks Draco would have told him if he was in on Dee's plan, but he's not certain. Not entirely. There are things Draco keeps to himself; Harry knows that. It's who Draco is, and as much as it frustrates Harry at times, he's willing to accept it. Dating a Slytherin is a bit more complex than he'd like, but it's worth it in the long run. 

"Right." Bertie searches Harry's face, almost as if he doesn't believe him, then he drops his hand from Harry's arm. "You'd best hope he didn't." His gaze slips towards the Luxembourgian delegation. "That lot down there will have his guts for garters if he did."

"Nadia wouldn't." Harry watches her. "She's a decent sort."

Bertie snorts. "Oh, you're an innocent lamb, aren't you?" He shakes his head. "Nadia Daifallah will cut anyone down whom she thinks to be standing in the way of justice--or her version of it, at least. You included, lad. Best be remembering that. Doesn't matter if she's friendly with you or not." His face looks troubled as he frowns down the other end of the table towards Kingsley, who's head is bent towards a furious Croaker. "And Mathias Thygesen's always hated Shacklebolt from his days as wizarding liaison to the Muggle prime minister. Don't know what happened there, but I'd tread carefully, Harry." His watery blue eyes find Harry's. "You've a history of going off a bit half-cocked, haven't you?"

Harry's face heats. "I've done better in the Auror force," he says a bit stiffly, and Bertie's face creases into a smile.

"That you have." Bertie pushes his chair back and stands. "Look after Draco. He's a tricky one, but he doesn't always see the direction danger might come from. Maybe if the both of you are looking for it…" Bertie heaves a sigh, looks away, towards Kingsley again. "Better forewarned, I suppose," he murmurs, and then he's striding away, his boots treading heavily across the slick wooden floor. 

"What was that about?" Hermione's next to Harry's shoulder, frowning after Bertie, as Harry glances up at her. She's gripping a stack of file jackets tightly. 

Harry shakes his head. "He's worried about Draco."

"Did Draco know about this?" Hermione looks over at Harry, her brow furrowed. 

And Harry can't lie to her. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I don't think so, but…" He trails off, worry twisting through him.

Hermione gives him a faint, uneasy frown. "Luxembourg's out for blood, Harry."

"I know." Harry stands up, his arse twinging ever so slightly, and follows Hermione out the door. He doesn't say anything else, not until they're halfway down the corridor. "What do they know about Dee?"

"Nothing much." Hermione glances back behind them. A few Luxembourg delegates are coming out of the conference room. She lowers her voice, walks faster alongside Harry. "Shah says Dee and Burke were alone with the Dementors as usual, and no one bothered to check on them until an alarm went off when the Spirit Shield failed. By the time the Aurors and Hit Wizards reached the containment unit, the Dementors were gone, along with Dee and Burke." She stops speaking as they turn the corner, a group of Ministry assistants coming towards them. Both Hermione and Harry smile and nod and pick up their pace, passing them by as quickly as they can.

Harry looks over at Hermione. "Do we know Dee was actually responsible? I realise they want to blame it on him--"

"There was residue at the site that indicated Dee set up some sort of transport portal." Hermione's face is sympathetic. "It's tied to his magical signature, and combined with Burke's as well. No way of forging that."

"Fuck," Harry murmurs. He runs his hand through his hair. "Any chance of tracing where he went through the residue?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Not likely. Croaker has a team working on it, but I think that's where Burke came in to play. The Unspeakables at the scene have found blocking spells in play, as well as charms that will repel any tracking charms into other locales, making them virtually useless." Harry's fairly certain Hermione looks impressed. "Only Muriel would know how to counter our spells." She holds her file jackets close to her chest. "That's confidential, of course."

"So Croaker kept that out of the room for what reason?" Harry stops and looks over at Hermione. She takes a few steps before she realises he's not beside her, and she turns back to him, her eyebrows rising. Harry frowns. "That might be information Kingsley needs to know--"

"We protect our own, Harry," Hermione says, her voice quiet. She doesn't look away from him; her gaze is fixed on his face. "Whether that's Muriel or Malfoy or Jake, even, by default. The same as you do for your Aurors. And until we know whether Muriel went of her own free will or was forced into going with Dee, or, fuck, until we know Dee actually is acting against the best interests of the British Ministry, we'll keep what we learn close to our chest. I'm only telling you out of friendship. You know that."

Harry starts walking again, his shoulders tightening with each step. He doesn't like any of this. Not the Dee bollocks. Not the Dolohov transfer. None of it. He draws in a deep breath, and says, "As long as you know I'll throw the whole Department of Mysteries under the bloody Knight Bus if it means Draco'll be kept safe."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." Hermione touches his arm, and Harry looks at her, unhappily. "I'll do everything I can, Harry, to make certain to make certain he's not caught up in this. We'll have to interview him, but I can insist on being there if you'd rather."

It's an offer Harry knows she shouldn't be making, one he ought to turn down. Instead, he finds himself nodding, and he says, "Thanks."

They stop at the lifts; Hermione reaches out and presses the down button. "He'll be all right, Harry," she says after a moment. "Malfoy's far more resourceful than you might think."

But that's not it, is it? Harry knows Draco can take care of himself, knows that he's smart, that he's savvy, and that he's bloody Slytherin for fuck's sake. Draco can navigate uncertain political waters far more deftly than Harry can. And still Harry's stomach twists at the thought. Because Draco has so much more to lose, hasn't he? One wrong move and his career's ruined. The press is already nipping at Draco's heels over his father's death. Harry knows it's Gawain and Croaker who've kept them at bay for now. How much longer they'll be able to, Harry's not certain, and he's worried that, after Nicholas bloody Lyndon today, what favour they've managed to curry with Barnabas Cuffe and the _Daily Prophet_ will vanish. 

Hermione's watching him, her mouth drawing down at the corners. "Harry," she says softly, as the Luxembourg delegation turns the corner, headed their way. "You can't protect him. You know that. Whatever's going to happen, Malfoy can rise above it. He's a bloody good Unspeakable already."

And that hurts, in a way that Harry can't explain to her. Draco's an Auror, not an Unspeakable. He's trained in Auror techniques; Slytherin or not, he doesn't have the shiftiness of an Unspeakable. Not in Harry's mind at least, and perhaps Harry's biased. Still, Draco's his, will always be his, and Harry still hasn't entirely forgiven Hermione for taking Draco away from Seven-Four-Alpha, however altruistic her reasons might have been. 

Harry breathes in, nods. "He is," Harry says, and Hermione will never know what that cost him to say. 

The lift dings open. They step in, with only a moment's respite before one of the younger Luxembourg assistants catches the door, smiling faintly at Harry as he holds it open for the others. "Good meeting," he says, and he can't be older than Harry, or so Harry thinks. 

"Absolutely brilliant," Harry says, not bothering to hide his sarcasm, despite Hermione's nudge, and he knows his own smile is fixed. Thin. The other man looks away, a bit flustered. Harry doesn't give a damn. He leans back against the wall of the lift car, feeling oddly suffocated by all of this. He just wants to go home, to wrap himself around Draco and forget as much of this bollocks as he can before he's forced to crawl out of bed tomorrow morning and make his way to the Ministry once again. 

Harry leans his head against the panelled wood and sighs. 

The doors slide shut. Harry closes his eyes.

And he breathes.

***

Blaise has a hell of a hangover on Thursday morning.

He's grateful that Draco went back to Potter the night before. They hadn't discussed it; Draco'd just left the incident room with the guv as Blaise was being called in to be interviewed by Daifallah and Bertie Aubrey. Robards had been pulled away, Bertie'd said, and Blaise thinks that's complete tosh. The Head Auror's avoiding him now, and to be honest, Blaise thinks that's perfectly fine with him. He doesn't want to see Robards or speak to him, not after what the man--his godfather, for Circe's sake, and Blaise can't even parse that yet--had dropped on him yesterday afternoon. 

Frankly he doesn't want to think about any of it. Not right now. Not when he can barely deal with what his bloody grandfather's gone and done. Daifallah had grilled him on that for nearly two hours, keeping him in the Ministry until nearly everyone else was gone and the lights were going dark, office by office. To be honest, Blaise wouldn't have come back in yesterday at all if it hadn't been for Bertie's owl, informing him of his grandfather's escape with the Dementors and letting him know his presence was required. Of course it bloody well had been. It doesn't matter if Blaise has a relationship with his grandfather or not; the very fact of their blood tie is enough to put Blaise under a cloud of suspicion. Fuck Barachiel Dee, really. Blaise had thought long and hard about whether he wanted to come back in, had, for a moment at least, considered just telling them all to sod off and hiding away in his flat. 

But what good would that have done? It'd have only put a citation in his personnel file for insubordination and made him look guiltier in the long run. Not that he is guilty, mind. Blaise hadn't any fucking clue what his grandfather was planning, although maybe he ought to have. The man has an unholy interest in the dead, after all, and if he's already created a Dementor, why not spirit them all off? Frankly, it's the sort of sodding mad thing Barachiel Dee might do, and he'd pointed that out to Daifallah as clearly as he could, letting her know that his grandfather was fucking off his nut, and no, he'd no idea where the hell hundreds of Dementors might be hidden away. It'd taken him forever to convince her--and he'd finally given in to a small dose of Veritaserum just to get her and that toady Thygesen off his bloody back, but they'd finally let him go. Bertie'd just clapped him on the shoulder and told Blaise to head home and sleep. 

Not that Blaise had been able to. Draco'd firecalled him thrice and Pansy once before Blaise had put the Floo on a do not disturb setting, blocking calls and visits. Someone had shown up on his doorstep at half-ten, but by then Blaise had been two-thirds of the way through a bottle of Ogden's eighteen-year, and really whoever it was could just fuck the fuck off for all he cared. He hadn't rolled off the sofa to answer the door, and after a while they'd gone away, thank fuck. Blaise had finished the bottle off before falling asleep, his face pressed into the sofa's leather cushions. He'd been lucky not to wake up in a puddle of his own sick, he supposes. As it was, he'd been an hour and a half past his usual alarm, and the amount of fucks Blaise had given at that point had been microscopic. He's not even certain what time it is now, although the sun is bright, the Atrium is almost empty, and the line in the tea shop is non-existent, so Blaise thinks it must be mid-morning. 

The tea the counterwitch hands him is hot and strong, and it helps with Blaise's headache. Somewhat. It takes it down to a dull throb, at least, rather than the raging roar it's been since he woke up. Blaise'd only had a swallow left of hangover potion in the cabinet this morning, and he's fairly certain it's out of date given how useless it's been. Still he manages to make it to the lifts and up to Level Two without having to converse with anyone he knows, which is a relief. Auror headquarters is near empty as Blaise skulks through, keeping his sunglasses firmly down on the bridge of his nose. Fuck what anyone thinks. He grips his paper cup of tea tightly, willing to use it as a weapon if need be, but he's fine until he makes it to the incident room. Blaise stops outside the door, tries to prepare himself for what lies within. If he's lucky Draco will be off doing whatever it is that Unspeakables are meant to do; the last thing Blaise wants to endure is his best friend's blistering glare when Draco thinks he's been mortally offended.

Blaise grips the door handle, takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

Jake and Althea look up from their desks. Fuck, Blaise thinks, almost pulling the door shut again. That's almost worse. 

"Well." Jake sets his quill down. "Look who the cat dragged in." He doesn't sound happy, Blaise thinks, and his voice is far louder than it needs to be. 

"That's an idiotic expression," Blaise says. He steps into the incident room and lets the door fall shut behind him. Never let him be counted a coward, he thinks grimly, as he takes a sip of his Assam. Jake just watches him, frowning. Blaise looks over at Althea. "Where are the others?" He walks over to his desk, drops his satchel on it. 

"Pansy's in the lab, and Malfoy's off prepping with Granger for his interview this afternoon about your grandfather," Althea says, and there's a touch of amusement in her voice. When Blaise turns back towards her, though, her face is calm. And when, Blaise thinks, did she start calling Pans by her first name? He frowns, but Althea just leans forward, her elbows on her desk. "The guv's in a meeting with Robards and Proudfoot, trying to figure out a way to blame all this on the Unspeakables." She glances towards Jake. "Sorry, Durant."

Jake shrugs. He's long and lean in khakis and a pale blue shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and it infuriates Blaise that he can make such a common, ridiculous, utterly _American_ outfit look utterly delicious. "Not my department, so I don't really give a fuck." 

"Yeah, well, you probably should a little bit," Althea says, "given that you're facing the interrogation squad yourself after lunch."

"Don't remind me." Jake's gaze slides back to Blaise. "You look like shit."

"Thanks ever so." Blaise eyes the whiteboard and the assignments scrawled along one side. "Nicholas Lyndon?" His stomach drops. "What the hell is his name up there for?"

Althea flicks her wand towards Draco's desk. A file jacket rises up and sweeps through the air towards Blaise. "New information from Malfoy and the guv yesterday. Got lost in all the uproar over your granddad."

Blaise flips through the file jacket, a roiling chill twisting through his belly. It's been his experience that anything that involves Lyndon is no good and likely to send Draco into a tailspin. He feels a faint flutter of guilt. No wonder Draco'd been trying to firecall him last night. 

"Harry wants you to track the financials," Jake says. "And put in for a Wizengamot order to access that account."

"It'll be easier to go through the Gringotts side of things with that," Blaise murmurs, turning another page in the file. Draco's writeup of the encounter is terse, but Blaise thinks he can sense the fear underneath. He presses his lips together and sighs before closing the file and dropping it on his desk. "I can call in a favour, I think. One of the Wizengamot assistants owes me. I think she can convince her boss to sign off on it."

He walks around the corner of his desk, but he still catches the look Jake gives Althea. She nods, then pushes her chair back. "I'm off for a tea then." She glances at the clock; Blaise is surprised to see it's nearly eleven. "And I promised I'd run those files of Granger's up to Pansy before lunch." Her gaze flicks towards Jake. "Might take me a bit."

Jake acts as if he doesn't notice. "Enjoy." He picks up his quill and goes back to whatever writing he was doing when Blaise first walked in. 

Althea leaves, and Blaise settles himself at his desk, not looking over at Jake. He feels odd alone here in the incident room with him. Blaise doesn't know what to say, and that's not a common experience for him. It makes him uncomfortable the longer Jake's silent, the only sound in the room the soft scratch of Jake's quill across the parchment. 

Blaise shifts in his chair, looks over at Jake. "So," he says after a moment, "did you arrange for Althea to fuck off when I came in?"

Jake doesn't answer at first. Instead he frowns down at the parchment, finishing the sentence he's writing before he glances up at Blaise. "Yes," he says, and that takes Blaise by surprise. He'd expected Jake to deny it, to be honest, and Blaise isn't quite certain what to do with that statement. 

"Oh," Blaise says, and he sounds like a sodding idiot, doesn't he? He opens the Lyndon file again, staring blankly down at it before he asks, "Why?"

That just earns him a shrug and a faint sigh. Jake sets his quill down again. "Malfoy says he firecalled you four times last night. The last one didn't even go through."

"I silenced my Floo," Blaise says, and he doesn't like that Jake's talking to Draco like this. "Is that a bloody crime now?"

"You also ignored Parkinson, and Harry tried to ring your mobile." Jake's watching Blaise carefully. It makes prickles slide across Blaise's skin; he has to look away. He didn't realise the guv had rung him up. His mobile's charge was low yesterday, and Blaise hadn't bothered to renew the charm. He pulls it out of his pocket and flips it open. The screen's dark. 

Blaise holds his mobile up. "Went dead."

Jake's just looking at him, those bright blue eyes of his searching Blaise's face. "I came to your door last night," Jake says quietly. "You didn't answer, and your light was on, so I know you were there." His mouth quirks up at one side. "Not to mention you shouted for me to go the sodding fuck away, so I think you might have been three sheets to the wind."

"Probably more," Blaise admits. He doesn't remember that part of it, but it does sound vaguely familiar, like some half-awake dream. He rubs the back of his neck. "Yesterday wasn't one of my better days." To say the goddamned least.

"Yeah." Jake's face softens. "I'm sorry about your grandfather."

Blaise looks over at him then. "Did you know what he was going to do?"

Jake doesn't answer. 

"So that's a yes then." Blaise exhales, and he wants to laugh even though he's not amused. He doesn't know what else to do other than cry and that's the last fucking thing Blaise is going to do in front of Jake fucking Durant. "You wanker."

"I didn't know beforehand." Jake scratches at his stubbled jaw. He looks tired, his eyes swollen a bit, the dark circles pronounced. Blaise feels something flutter inside of him, a protective urge that makes him want to reach out for Jake, to pull him close. He fights it off, turns away. Jake sighs. "Muriel came to me just before they went yesterday. She wanted me to take on Malfoy's training for now." He laughs, a bit bitterly. "I probably should have seen the writing on the wall, but she was so matter-of-fact about it. I was actually flattered to be asked. I hadn't any goddamn idea she was going to take off with a prison full of fucking Dementors and your grandpa."

Blaise drops the file jacket back onto his desk. He doesn't understand any of this. Not really. "They probably should have expected it of him." But Blaise doesn't know why. He hadn't, after all. 

"It's not your usual crime," Jake says, and his mouth twitches up. "How the fuck he managed to do that…" He trails off, shakes his head, before glancing back at Blaise. "How's your mother taking it?"

And that makes Blaise want to snort. His mother had sent an owl this morning, telling him she'd left on the last Eurostar out of St Pancras the night before, after hearing from someone unnamed that she might be questioned about her father's actions. Robards, probably, Blaise thinks. No one else would think of telling Olivia, and if Blaise knows Robards--and he does, more so than he'd like to right now--the man must be feeling as if he owes her a favour, after having spilled all her secrets to Blaise yesterday. 

Blaise runs his hands over his face, feeling suddenly tired. "She's fine," he says. "Running away, as usual." His mother has always managed to escape any sort of Auror attention, usually by turning to Muggle means, and, given what he knows now, Blaise is starting to suspect his father must have shown her how to. Or she'd picked up enough from being married to an Auror. He drops his hands, feeling as if the weight of the world's resting on his shoulders. It hadn't come up in his questioning, his father's hidden Auror status, so Robards must still be keeping Christopher Zabini's secrets. Blaise wishes he didn't know. Everything was so much simpler before.

"What was simpler?" Jake asks, and when Blaise scowls at him, Jake holds up his hands. "You were thinking too loudly."

That sends a chill shivering through Blaise. He needs to be more careful. He doesn't want anything else, anything more personal slipping out. He takes the conversation with his mother and tucks it away, barricading it behind several layers of Occlumency protection. He's still utter pants at it, despite Draco trying to help him from time to time, but it's decent enough that he knows Jake won't push to find it. 

When he looks up, Jake's watching him again, his brow furrowed. "What's going on?" Jake asks softly. "This isn't all about your grandfather."

Blaise wants to say it is, wants to keep this part of things from Jake. It's none of Jake's business, not really. But he finds himself saying, "Robards told me my father was an Auror."

Jake sits back in his chair, a breath huffing out of him. "That must have been a surprise."

"About as much as him telling me my father was his partner on the force," Blaise says, and the words stick in his throat. "That he died because of something my grandfather had him involved in." Blaise looks over at Jake. "I'm not thrilled with him at the moment."

"Robards?" Jake asks. "Or your grandfather."

Blaise considers, then says, "Either, really." He folds his arms on his desk, his shoulders hunched. He's so fucking tired, and he hates that his mother ran again, leaving him behind once more. It's what she's done since he entered Hogwarts and she had the freedom to walk away from him. Olivia's a fearsome woman, everyone thinks so, even her son, but sometimes Blaise wishes she'd think of him first. There'd been no reason for her to leave last night. She hadn't helped Barachiel do a damned thing, Blaise is bloody well certain of that. But she'd run anyway, at the threat of the Aurors, and she'd left him alone. 

"You're not alone," Jake says quietly, and then he's on his feet, coming around the desks to squat beside Blaise's chair. "We were all trying to talk to you last night."

"I know." Blaise doesn't know how to explain that he couldn't bear it then, that he'd needed to be alone, that he'd had to drown himself in a bottle of firewhisky. He breathes out, shakes his head. "It's not that." 

They're silent for a moment, then Jake lays his hand over Blaise's. His fingers are thick and warm, and Blaise thinks of how they've touched him before, stroked him, caressed him, pressed deep inside of Blaise's body. A shiver goes through Blaise, and he turns his hand beneath Jake's, letting their fingers thread together. And that's almost too intimate, almost too much. He thinks about pulling away, but Jake's fingers tighten around his. 

"Stay," Jake whispers, and Blaise looks up at him, his gaze caught by those bright blue eyes. 

_Mine,_ Blaise thinks, and it's so raw and primal, a scrape of sharp talons, a rustle of wide wings that's overwhelming in its intensity. 

And then Jake's leaning forward, brushing his lips ever so lightly across Blaise's. It's the faintest of touches, but it's enough to make Blaise shudder with want before Jake pulls away, his eyes wide, his pupils blown. They look at each other, and Jake says, his voice rasping, "The others will be coming in."

"Yeah." Blaise breathes out, but he can't tear his gaze from Jake's face. Deep within his mind there's a steady chant, beating with the rhythm of his heart. _Mine, mine, mine, mine._ He wants Jake, wants him here and now, wants to claim Jake as his, to mark him, to wrap himself tightly around Jake's long body.

Jake's fingertips smooth across Blaise's skin, over his knuckles, across the back of Blaise's hand. Blaise's prick swells at the touch, pressing against the flies of his trousers. He knows this is stupid, knows they'll get caught. Part of him doesn't care. Not when Jake Durant is beside him, looking up at him with those brilliant eyes. 

"You're incorrigible," Jake says, and he's turning Blaise's chair towards him, shifting from a squat to his knees on the floor. He's smiling up at Blaise, and Blaise can't help but lean down and kiss him, slow and long this time, his hands cupping Jake's face. 

_Mine,_ Blaise's heart sings, and Blaise doesn't care if it's true or not. Right now, right here, it can be. 

"They'll be back soon," Blaise says, a bit breathlessly, and he wonders if this is what had been so intoxicating for Draco with the guv, this knowledge that anyone could find them, anyone could walk in. Now, here, Jake Durant is on his knees between Blaise's thighs and that is all that matters. 

Jake's eyebrow goes up. "I suppose that means I better get to work," he says, and his fingers are already pulling at Blaise's belt buckle, loosening it. Blaise watches as Jake unbuttons Blaise's trousers, pulls at the zip, tugs Blaise's shirt free. 

Fuck, Blaise thinks, and a thrill goes through him when Jake's palm smooths over the swollen front of Blaise's y-fronts, pulling the white cotton taut over the curve of Blaise's prick. Circe but he's hard already, and there's a small patch of wetness spreading across the cotton. "Jake," Blaise says. It's half a gasp, half a whinge, and Jake just laughs. 

"Impatient, are we?" Jake's thumb sweeps across the wet spot; Blaise groans, trying not to buck his hips up. This feels forbidden, exciting. It's not that he's never had public sex, never pushed boundaries like this. Blaise has. But it feels different with Jake. Almost newer. Unexplored. 

And when Jake hooks his fingers beneath the elastic of Blaise's y-fronts and pulls them down, tucking them beneath the thick swell of Blaise's bollocks, Blaise can barely contain himself. "God," he chokes out. "You're really going to suck my cock? Here? In the incident room?"

Jake glances back at the door, then up at Blaise. "You have a problem with that?" He runs a thumb up along the curve of Blaise's prick. "Because I could stop."

"I swear to Merlin, you bastard," Blaise manages to say, "that I will fucking kill you if you do."

"That's what I thought." Jake's voice is thick with amusement. He bats Blaise's hands away. "So let me." 

Fuck but Jake's mouth feels brilliant as it closes around Blaise's prick, dragging up along Blaise's shaft to the head, his tongue sliding out to curve around Blaise's foreskin, pushing it back in tiny, careful licks. Blaise leans back in his chair, spreads his legs wider, his hands gripping at the arms. Jake looks amazing like this, his hands on Blaise's knees, pushing them open, moving closer so that he can stretch his mouth over the thickness of Blaise's cock, sliding down ever so slowly, inch by inch, his gaze fixed on Blaise's face. 

"Oh." Blaise rolls his shoulders back into his chair. "Take it," he whispers. "The whole of it."

And Jake swallows more of Blaise, shifting between Blaise's thighs, his hands gripping Blaise's trousers. Blond curls fall forward, obscuring Blaise's view, and his hands slip through Jake's hair, holding it back as he watches Jake take nearly all of him into his mouth, slick saliva slipping down the inch or two left, wetting Jake's chin, Blaise's bollocks. Merlin, but Blaise hasn't ever seen anything like this. As many times as they've fucked, this is different. This is Jake taking Blaise, swallowing him, his eyes watering with the intensity of it, with the thickness of Blaise's prick pushed back against his throat. Blaise wants to push his hips forward, to fuck Jake's face in quick, eager thrusts. It's all he can do to hold back, to smooth his thumbs over Jake's temples, waiting for Jake to move. 

He does. 

The feel of Jake's mouth sliding along Blaise's prick is shudderingly good. Jake draws back almost to the tip, letting his tongue flick lightly across Blaise's slick slit, and then he's pushing back again, faster this time, his throat working around the length of Blaise's cock. 

"Fuck," Blaise says, and the word echoes in the room, louder than Blaise thinks he meant it. He doesn't care because Jake's sucking him, one hand tight around the root of his prick whilst his mouth presses down again, Jake's cheeks concave around Blaise's length. 

Nothing has ever felt like this, and Blaise has had more fellatio than he'd care to admit at the moment. But this is intimate. Dirty. And oh so fucking good. 

Blaise twists his fingers in Jake's hair, pulling at it, pushing Jake's head back down towards his bollocks, hard enough to nearly choke Jake, but Jake doesn't seem to care. He's swallowing Blaise down, and Blaise is pushing his hips up, giving in to the need to fuck Jake's pretty pink mouth, to hear Jake groan around the girth of his prick. 

And then Blaise has a flash of an image in his mind; a hint of Jake beneath him, spread wide across Blaise's bed, his hands gripping the headboard as Blaise pounds into him, hard and fast, his body slick with sweat already. 

Blaise looks down at Jake, his eyes wide, and Jake just swallows more of him, his fingers tight around Blaise's cock, and Blaise knows Jake wants that, knows Jake's willing to let Blaise take him, knows the very thought of it makes Jake's prick swell in anticipation. 

"Tonight," Blaise says, and Jake's eyes are bright as he looks up at Blaise. "If you want."

 _Yes,_ Blaise hears in his mind, and then Jake's sucking him down again, his tongue pressing into Blaise's slit, and Blaise can't stop himself then, as the shudders of desire swell through him again, and he cries out, his body tensing and writhing beneath Jake's touch. 

His orgasm builds so quickly, he doesn't have time to warn Jake. One last thrust of his hips and he's coming with a deep groan, his fingers pulling at Jake's hair, his spunk filling Jake's mouth, sliding out along his own cock as Jake presses down on him, swallowing around Blaise's pulsing prick.

Blaise falls back against the chair, gasping. His spent cock slides out of Jake's mouth, and then Jake's leaning back, fumbling with his own flies, and Blaise's barely aware of the slap of hand against skin, the quick, furious slide of Jake's palm along his own prick until Jake's tilting forward again, his face pressed to Blaise's thigh as he gasps wordlessly into Blaise's trousers, his shoulders tensing and shivering beneath Blaise's hands. 

Jake comes with a quiet cry, his body jerking between Blaise's spread thighs, and then he stills, the only sounds in the room Jake's uneven breath and the faint squeak of Blaise's chair as he shifts his weight. 

They're silent, the both of them, and then Blaise is pulling at Jake, tugging him up so that he can kiss him, can taste the bitterness of himself on Jake's tongue. 

"Fuck," Jake says against Blaise's mouth, and Blaise can't help but laugh. He feels relaxed for the first time since Draco had shown up at his Floo, and he lets Jake sense that. Jake kisses Blaise again, smoothes one hand over Blaise's shirt. "Good," Jake says. "You've been too damn tense lately."

Really, Blaise can't argue with that. 

"Tonight," Jake says, and he pulls back, as Blaise casts cleaning charms on both of them. "Tonight, you're going to open that fucking Floo of yours, yeah?"

Blaise watches as Jake leans back, tucks his prick back into his trousers. "And if I don't?"

"I'll make it worth your while if you do," Jake says, sidestepping the challenge and giving Blaise a slow, easy smile that sends an aftershock shuddering through Blaise's body. 

Still, Blaise doesn't intend to seem that eager. "I'll think about it," he says, and Jake snorts, slapping Blaise's thigh as he pushes himself to his feet.  
.  
"Put your dick back in your pants before anyone comes in," Jake says. "Much as I might like the view."

"If these walls could talk," Blaise says, half under his breath, but he shifts in his chair, pulling himself together. He eyes Jake. "Was this your plan from the beginning?"

Jake laughs. "Not so much a plan as an improvised solution." He looks over at Blaise. "How's your head?"

Blaise frowns at him. "Better." To be honest, his headache's gone entirely. Not that he'll admit that to Jake. He doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. From the cocky look on Jake's face, Blaise suspects he knows anyway. 

"Here's a tip for the future," Jake says, walking over to his own desk, "Veritaserum and firewhisky? Not the best combination in the world." He eyes Blaise. "That shit'll fuck you up, man."

Trust an American to state the obvious. Blaise flips two fingers Jake's way. "I'll keep that in mind the next time Luxembourg decides to spend half the night interrogating me about my arsehole grandfather."

Jake drops down into his chair. "If you don't, call me up." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "I'd be more than happy to help you get over it." 

Blaise balls up a scrap of parchment and throws it his way. Jake bats it away with a laugh. 

When Althea walks back in a few minutes later, they're both bent over their work. 

"Better?" she asks, and then she sniffs the air, her nostrils flaring before either of them can answer. "Circe's tits," she mutters, and with a flick of her wand, she sends the scent of citrus and pine wafting through the room. She eyes them both in exasperation. 

Jake just shrugs at her. "Stress break," he says.

Althea sighs, settling back in her chair. She runs a finger along the edge of her desk. "Just stay on your side of the room, for fuck's sake."

Frankly, Blaise wants to sink into the floor. He can't even look at Jake right now.

Pansy walks in, still in her lab coat, a satchel slung over her shoulder. She's wearing a blue flowered sundress underneath, and Blaise gets an eyeful of creamy skin and the swell of her admittedly excellent tits.

She sniffs the air, just as Althea had, then she looks around, a look of puzzlement on her face as the familiar scent of Althea's freshening charm wafts her way. "Wait. Where are Draco and the guv?" Her gaze flicks to Potter's office, the door of which is half-open. "They didn't…" Her face twists in horror at the expression on Althea's face. Blaise can't meet her eye either. "Merlin, you didn't catch them in flagrante delicto?"

Althea's gaze flicks towards Blaise, then Jake. Blaise knows the moment the Knut drops for Pans. Her eyes widen, then narrow again, and she strides over to Blaise, leaning across his desk to slap him on his shoulder. "No," she says sharply, as if she's talking to a wayward Crup who's left a mess on the carpet. "I had to deal with one set of overly hormonal twats shagging across every desk in this bloody office the whole of the summer. I'm not putting up with another one." She whirls on Jake. "Am I clear?"

Jake just looks at her, his face calm. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Make sure you don't," Pansy snaps. She throws her lab coat across her desk and looks over at Althea. "Buy me lunch before we go see your dad?"

And that's curious, Blaise thinks as Althea's face lights up. He doesn't quite know what's going on with those two, but then again, women have always been a bit of a mystery to him, as much as he appreciates them. In ways both physical and otherwise. 

"Whatever you'd like," Althea says, and she's already on her feet. 

Blaise reaches for his file on Nicholas Lyndon. Better to distract himself with this wanker for now, he thinks, half-watching Pansy follow Althea out the door. He can always ask Pansy what's going on with that later. 

For now, there's work to do. Wizengamot orders to obtain. Twattish financiers to bring down.

It feels good, Blaise thinks, to be back.

***

Pansy doesn't really know what she'd expected when Althea'd asked her to go along to talk with her father, but it certainly wasn't this. They'd Flooed into the back room of a Bristol chippie a half a mile away from the dry home Mitchell Whitaker's staying at--Pansy's sure her hair still reeks of frying oil and greasy fish from the few minutes it'd taken them to extract themselves from the chatter of the shop owners who'd been thrilled to see Althea pop through their hearth--and then, after spending a Galleon on chips and newspaper-wrapped fried cod that they'd taken with them, walked up Greenworthy Road to where it became Selworthy.

Now they're standing on the kerb outside of a row of bay-fronted Victorian terraced houses, finishing off the last of the chips doused in malt vinegar. The front garden's mostly gravel, with a thin line of green grass along the pavement, but it doesn't look terribly bleak, at least not to Pansy's eye. Before they'd left, Althea had explained to Pansy what a dry home was and offered her several opportunities to back out. Frankly, each attempt had made Pansy more certain that she needed to go along. Althea's taken on too much, Pansy thinks, what with her father. Pansy's seen the same sort of thing with Draco, and Blaise too, in a way, all of them taking on the responsibility of an errant parent who, Pansy thinks, ought to have pulled their shit together long before their child had to take it on. Really, as fucked up as her family might be, at least she's never had that sort of worry laid on her shoulders.

"Should we go in?" Pansy doesn't look at Althea. She can tell Althea's nervous, whether about being here or about having Pansy see the underbelly of her life, Pansy isn't certain. "Only I think that woman behind the lace curtains over there is going to have some sort of fit if we keep standing here."

Althea swivels her head, and the curtain twitches, the round face of its occupant disappearing abruptly. Althea shades her eyes against the August sun, frowning. "Oh, that's just Cathy Miller, Dad's nemesis. She's a bit of a gossip, likes to know what's going on before the others."

Still, Althea doesn't go in, but stays on the pavement outside, apparently contemplating the front door. Pansy takes the wrappings from their chips and tosses them in the Muggle rubbish bins in front of the dry home's entrance. From here she can see a small shield with the home's name next to the door. She lays a hand casually on the grooved top of the stone pillars framing the front walk and turns back to Althea. "Is there anything else you want me to know before we go in? Or do you want me to help you figure something out?" She watches Althea carefully, trying to pick up on her mood. 

For a moment, Althea pauses, then she shrugs her shoulders. "He's really very nice, my dad." Althea glances down, and Pansy knows her cleavage is a bit more prominent in this sundress than usual. She doesn't mind the quick sweep of Althea's gaze. She thinks about arching forward a bit, giving Althea a bit more of a view. Althea needs it right now, Pansy thinks. 

Althea looks away, her face flushing. "Dad'll like you. He appreciates smart women."

"Like father, like daughter?" Pansy asks, and then wonders where that came from. 

Althea gives Pansy a frown for a moment, then rubs her hands on her twill trousers. "I suppose," she says, but her scowl fades away into a faint smile. Her patterned cotton shirt is just thin enough that Pansy can see Althea's small tits if she tries. She's not wearing a brassiere; Pansy thinks she can see the dusky hint of nipples beneath the floral print. Althea's thick, dark hair is pulled back in a neat plait that hangs down the length of her back. She looks tidy, and something about the neatness and control of Althea's everyday clothes makes Pansy long to muss her up. To wreck her, even. Again, Pansy wonders where that thought came from. Except there's a part of her that knows, whether or not she wants to admit it. But that sort of thought makes Pansy nervous, a bit uncertain, and Pansy hates feeling that way. It's ridiculous anyway. Pansy knows she's just missing Tony, that she's been celibate for far too many weeks. It does things to her head, she thinks, and really what she needs is a good shagging. Then all these ridiculous thoughts'll go right out of her mind. 

Althea walks past her, and Pansy follows her to the door, watching the play of Althea's shoulder blades and thinking about how much narrower they are than Tony's, even if Althea's strong and muscular from all the training Potter still insists on--not to mention her training before Seven-Four-Alpha. Wrightson was pretty famous for working his team hard; drinking and weightlifting were evidently part of his group bonding tactics. Pansy shivers. She wonders what stories Althea could tell about that time under Wrightson's command. She knows Althea's still close to Maxie, but Wrightson's dead now, his team dispersed, and Pansy can't see Althea as the person she once thought Althea was. Althea's not that uptight, horrid bitch any longer; she's a part of Seven-Four-Alpha now, and it's changed her, as it's changed them all, really. And maybe that's the guv in it all, that and his ability to see past their fuck-ups and give them the space to make amends in their own bitter ways. Still, Pansy decides to push Althea a bit harder on her history with Wrightson the next time they're down the pub, to see how she reacts.

There's a small white button on the side of the door. Althea presses it, a bell ringing deep within the house as she does. They wait, a bit impatiently the both of them, until the sound of footsteps echoes from the other side. 

When the door swings open, a thin, narrow-faced gingery blond man peers out at them. "Can I help you?" His voice is more annoyed than welcoming, and from his distracted manner and the way he wipes his hands on a faded tea towel printed with the face of the Queen herself--not to mention the bit of chopped parsley stuck on his shirt--Pansy suspects he was in the middle of cooking. 

"Hi. Sorry. Althea Whitaker, Mitchell's daughter." Althea extends a hand, but the rat-faced man doesn't take it. Pansy watches as she squares her shoulders, letting her arm drop. "We're here for family visiting hours."

"This your family, then?" The man makes a bit of a snide glance in Pansy's direction, and Pansy's seen enough, especially when Althea's face falters a bit. Fuck that, Pansy decides. If this little rat-faced bastard thinks he's going to keep Althea away from her dad today, he's another bloody think coming.

She drapes herself against Althea, tucking her arm snugly under Althea's elbow. "Oh yes. We are. We bought our flat first, and now we're thinking about the wedding." She casts a lovesick, wide-eyed look in Althea's direction. Those years of playing the dutiful daughter in front of her parents' friends have paid off, Pansy thinks. Her acting skills are superb. Really, she ought to have gone to the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts.

Althea pauses for a moment, then she smiles, catching the game. She gives Pansy such a warm look, it takes Pansy's breath away. "And she's such an angel to come visit Dad with me. He does so love the company."

The rat-faced man scowls. "Weren't none of my business, how you sort live your lives." He mutters something under his breath, but leaves the door open as he turns away.

Althea strides in firmly, her arm locked in Pansy's. When they've gone down the narrow hall and up another set of stairs, she says, "That was a good one. Thanks." She steps away, letting Pansy's arm slide from hers, and Pansy misses the warmth almost immediately. She's a bit overwhelmed from the proximity to Althea, the fresh smell of her skin and the scent of some sort of flower from her hair--shampoo of some sort, grassy, with roses and something else sweeter, perhaps jasmine. Pansy can't quite tell.

Pansy wants to look at Althea, wants to ask her if her father knows she likes girls, if he cares or if it's something they've fought over. She realises how little she knows about Althea's life, how rare it is for Althea to give even the slightest bit away about how she lives, who she is. Pansy doesn't even know where Althea's flat is at, who Althea's closest friends are other than Maxie. And yet, here she is, walking through the dry home Althea's father's living in, and Pansy knows that means something. 

She's just not certain what that might be yet.

The house is well-maintained, Pansy thinks, following Althea down the hallway, if a bit shabby on the inside. It's like all the colour has been sucked out of everything, walls, carpet, the occasional furnishing or photograph hanging on the wall, and Pansy doesn't find much to catch her eye. She's seen buildings like this in the wizarding world, although they're not for the same purpose. Still, she's gone along with her mother to visit the elderly members of their shul from time to time, and she recognises the blandness of it all, that first impression of quiet desperation that fades into signs of life, of human hope, of activity as her eyes adjust to the dimness of the corridor. There's a placard up advertising a quiz night and another for the finale of something called Big Brother. Pansy thinks it's Muggle television, but she's not really sure beyond that.

They stop at a light brown door numbered 113. Althea raps her knuckles against the doorjamb, then shoots a quick glance at Pansy. 

"It's okay," Pansy mouths at her as the door swings open, and then a man's standing there, slope-shouldered, his brown hair threaded with grey. Mitchell Whitaker, Pansy presumes when Althea's face softens, her eyes brighten.

"There you are, baby girl." Whitaker gives his daughter a big smile, and for a moment, looking on, Pansy thinks of her own father and her anger with him. She misses him, she realises. Whatever he's doing, however he's fucking up. He's still her father. He always will be. Then Whitaker catches sight of her, standing just behind Althea, and his face changes, becomes a bit more guarded. "And who might you be?"

He's not unfriendly, Pansy decides, just a keen observer. She smiles at him, not having to feign nervousness. Her stomach is fluttering a bit oddly.

"This is…" Althea stops, looks at her, almost uncertainly, and Pansy realises Althea doesn't quite know how to introduce her.

And so Pansy puts her best, warmest Camilla Parkinson smile on, and holds out her hand. "I'm Pansy."

Whitaker's eyebrows raise--and oh how that reminds Pansy of his daughter--then he smiles, bright and open. "I see," he says, and the way he's studying Pansy answers her earlier question, she thinks, about whether or not he knows his daughter's fond of women. "Welcome, Pansy. It's nice to meet you." Pansy can almost hear the words in the look he gives his daughter, the _we're going to talk about this later, aren't we?_ look. Pansy knows it well, from her own parents, but she doesn't let it faze her.

He ushers them into a small, spotless room with a sitting area and a Muggle telly near the window, turned on but silenced. There's some sort of sport on it, judging from the expanse of green pitch and the men in white uniforms scattered across it. Pansy's gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the small cooking area and, in the alcove beyond, a simple bed with a brown coverlet. It's modest, but Pansy's not fussed. She takes the chair in the corner when Mitchell Whitaker gestures for her to sit down, letting Althea sit across from her father.

"So what's all this about?" Whitaker asks when they're all seated. "You usually come after work, not the middle of the afternoon." He's studying Althea, watching her carefully. "This isn't a social call, I'm thinking, yeah?"

Despite the ravages of time and drink written across Whitaker's face, Pansy can see the attractive, strong lines of his features, the clever, wry smile that his daughter inherited. His blue eyes are sharp, and Pansy has a sense that he sees more than he says, a sense she frequently has around Althea. Althea is a bit more driven than her father, Pansy decides, her temper a bit closer to the surface. She wonders if that part comes from Althea's mother. Mitchell Whitaker seems far too calm to have produced a woman like Althea.

"We're chasing a case," Althea frowns, picks at a piece of lint on her trousers. She's nervous, Pansy realises, which fascinates her. It's so unusual to see Althea on her back foot like this. "We need more information."

"And you think I have it?" Whitaker leans back, scratching his jawa, then he nods at Pansy. "You work together then?"

"Yes." Pansy smiles, glancing over at Althea, who looks a bit uncomfortable. "The two of us were put on the same team a few weeks back."

Whitaker nods, clearly delighted to have figured something out that's making his daughter squirm. "I see. Work romances are a bit difficult. I know I'm old now, but aren't they frowned upon?"

When Althea starts to protest, Pansy just shakes her head. "The wizarding world is so much smaller, Mr Whitaker. There are guidelines, of course, to prevent abuse of power, but we'd never date if we couldn't find each other at work."

"It's not like that, Dad," Althea says, and the look she gives Pansy is unreadable. "Pansy and I are just friends." She clears her throat. "Work colleagues, really. She's here with me on official business."

"I see." Whitaker has a thoughtful look on his face. Althea's face is pink, and, to be honest, Pansy likes the look on her. She's feeling a bit smug to have put Althea off her calm, even more so to have Mitchell Whitaker eyeing his daughter as if she's lost her mind. Whitaker shakes his head, then says, "So if this is work-related, what was it you wanted from me? I'm afraid I can't help you with anything on your side of things--"

"But you can." Althea's voice is quiet, and Pansy looks over at her. There's a firm set to Althea's jaw. "It's Mum. We're investigating the people who killed her, and we need every scrap of evidence we can get on them to pin them to wall." 

"No," Whitaker says, sharply. "You know how I feel about this, Althea--"

Althea meets his gaze. "I have to, Dad," she says, and there's an urgency to her voice that makes Pansy's heart ache. "Mum..." She trails off, looks away, her arms folded across her chest. 

Pansy can't stay quiet. Not when she can see the toll this is taking already on Althea. "Your wife's death is connected to one of our cases," she says, looking at Whitaker. "We've caught one of her killers already, but if you want justice to be served, you have to help us."

"We need to look into Mum's files," Althea says. Her hands are clasped in front of her, her fingers twined together. "I know you must still have them."

Mitchell doesn't move for a moment, and then he looks at Althea. "I don't want you getting involved in this," he says finally, crossing his arms. "It took your mother's life." His voice catches, and when he looks at Althea, his eyes are wet. "Please. I don't want it to take yours."

Althea's about to protest, but Pansy holds up a hand, forestalling the brewing father-daughter row she knows is coming. "You both are very alike," she muses. "And you clearly care about each other deeply." She looks at Althea. "You know your father's right to worry about the danger." 

"Dolohov's in custody," Althea starts to say, but she breaks off at Pansy's even look. She rubs her thumb across the back of her knuckle. "I know it's dangerous," she says. "But we need this information, Dad."

Whitaker runs a hand through his hair. It shakes just a bit, the leather bracelet on his wrist sliding down along his forearm. "I don't like it."

"I know." Althea looks up at him. "But I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. You know that."

Pansy turns to Whitaker. "Your daughter is one of the most tenacious Aurors I know." She pauses, uncertain if he knows what she means. "That's our word for police officer." 

"Yes." Whitaker nods for her to continue, waving a hand. "I'm aware of the terminology. I was married to a witch, after all."

"Right." Pansy flushes a bit. She wishes Blaise were here. He's better with Muggles than she is, to be honest. "If we can figure out what this connects to, even just shed light on some of the activities of the arseholes--" She breaks off, aware of Whitaker watching her. "Sorry, nasty pieces of work involved." Pansy stops, looking to Althea again. "I know that you both want justice for Althea's mother. And this may be the best chance we have to expose the people she was investigating." The argument comes from Althea herself, telling Pansy over several pints what she thinks the value could be of Clio Yaxley's files to their case, if only her father would hand them over. If he even still has them, Pansy thinks warily. Because that's still not entirely established, and his life hasn't been that stable as of late, by all appearances.

Whitaker shakes his head slowly, lost in thought. "Clio was so sure she was close to a breakthrough in the story she was working on, but I have no idea if it was true. She died before she could make the connections she wanted." His mouth turns down. "We journalists often think our stories are there, but sometimes they evaporate and leave us with nothing." He doesn't look at his daughter. "Maybe that's what this one was."

They all know that isn't bloody true, Pansy thinks. 

"For Christ's sake, Dad." Althea huffs in exasperation and stands up. "I'm going to get some air." She glances at Pansy. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Pansy sits there, watching her go. She's not worried about being left with Althea's dad--she wishes she could ask him for more about Althea, about what she was like as a child. She can see a few photos in the little room, Althea in Hogwarts robes, Althea riding a Muggle bicycle, Althea younger and in an Auror training outfit. A fragile sort of silence descends on the room.

"Would you like a cuppa?" Whitaker stands up, clearly taking the best conversational out he can find.

"Yes, please." Pansy doesn't really want tea, but she's nothing else to do.

He gets up, switches on the kettle on the counter. Pansy knows about these--she saw them in the Muggle Studies class her mother had insisted she take at Hogwarts, despite the other Slytherins mocking her, and also in her Auror training for magical-Muggle interactions. She worries for a moment when the light goes on, and then the water begins to heat. Pansy notices he takes three cups out of the cupboard--he must know his daughter's temper well-- and puts three bags from a box on the counter. When the water's finished, he pours the steaming water into the cups, cursing as he scalds himself with a splash from one of the cups. Whitaker's hands don't shake, Pansy thinks. Not much. She tries not to look for signs that his recovery isn't working. She doesn't want to know. Suddenly the tenuous nature of the situation overwhelms her, the vulnerability of Althea, of her father, their awkward inability to reach an understanding about their shared grief.

Pansy takes the cup he hands her, blowing on the steam for something to do. Whitaker sits down again, eyeing his own cup. "Do you think I should do it?" His voice is quiet, but there is real doubt in it.

"Yes." Pansy doesn't hesitate. "Your daughter is amazing, she's on a good team." She thinks for a moment. "We may not be the best team on the force, but we're probably the most difficult to get round."

Whitaker has a quirk to the edge of his mouth. "I can see why she likes you, you know."

As Pansy smiles back, trying to think of the right thing to say, Althea's voice comes from the open door. "And that's enough on that subject." 

Her dad sits back. "She does like to be in charge, doesn't she?" he asks, eyeing Pansy the whole time to see how she's reacting. He twists his leather bracelet around his wrist, almost nervously. "Her last girlfriend complained about that."

"Dad," Althea looks over at him from where she's putting together her own tea. "That's enough."

Pansy inhales, covering her surprise with a cough. She smiles. "Althea's very good at being in charge. She made sergeant last month." She can't look at Whitaker directly. Even though she's no attachment to what he's implying, the inference makes her blush. Sympathetically, she's certain, and only on Althea's behalf. 

"Milk?" Althea asks, and Pansy nods.

She prays they'll be able to get the papers from Mitchell--she's no idea what she's walked in to, but the conversation is almost as sharp as her mother's table, and that's saying something.

Althea sits back down across from her father, her tea mug cupped between her hands. "So," she says. "Are you going to tell us where Mum's files are? I know you couldn't have thrown them away."

Whitaker hesitates, then he sighs. "If I go on record protesting that it's an awful idea, I suppose you still won't listen."

"Probably not," Althea says, but her voice is gentler. "It's not just me, Dad. I'll have an entire team with me. We're Aurors, not journos. This is what we do." She pauses. "I'll be going after these men, whether or not you help. But if Mum's files can give us anything to work from…" She trails off. 

Mitchell Whitaker is silent for a long moment, and then his shoulders slump. "I'll regret this, I think." He sets his tea aside, then fumbles with the clasp of his leather bracelet. He takes it off and hands it to Althea. Her fingers curl around the thin leather, and she gives him a frown. 

"What's this?" Althea asks. 

Whitaker rubs the back of his neck. There's a pale swathe of skin on his wrist where the bracelet's been. "Your mum transfigured that before she died. She gave it to me because she was worried they'd find it. It's a key."

Althea looks up at him, her eyes wide. "A key to what?"

For a moment, Whitaker's silent, and Pansy can see his struggle written across his face. She feels for him, she really does, but they need this break in the case. "Mitchell," Pansy says softly. "Please help us."

Whitaker draws in a slow breath, and then glances at his daughter. "It's to a safe-deposit box in the Oxford Circus branch of Barclay's. Your mum kept most of her files there, the ones that were important. She thought it best to lock them away in a Muggle bank; she said the men she was going after would never think of going there."

Pansy's not so certain of that any longer. Not with the information they have about Nicholas bloody Lyndon and that sodding account number. Her gaze flicks towards Althea who's chewing her bottom lip. She looks at Pansy, and Pansy can tell she's thinking the same. 

"You're certain of this, Dad?" Althea asks, and Whitaker nods. 

"I've been wearing it since she died," he says. "Before, really. She thought they were after her. When they showed up that night…" He looks away, and his shoulders hunch. "I should have given it to them then. Maybe they would have let her live--" His voice breaks, and Althea's out of her chair, kneeling beside him, pulling him to her. 

"They wouldn't have," Althea murmurs. "Not those men. They killed her for sport, Dad, not just for this."

Her father's shaking, a raw sob pulled from the back of his throat. "But I could have--"

And Althea holds him, rocking him softly as he sobs against her, and Pansy doesn't know what to do, so she stands, carrying her tea to the small counter beside the hob and setting it down. Althea's whispering to her father, pulling him close, her head pressed to his, and Pansy can feel their grief from across the room. 

Pansy walks out into the hallway, leans against the faded beige wall. She wonders what it must feel like to have lost a parent like that. She's the only one of the team, she realises, who still has both of her parents, who hasn't gone through this devastating loss. She's doesn't know what to say, how to be for any of them, not really. 

And so she waits. 

It feels like an eternity before Althea walks out of her father's rooms, her shoulders slumped, the leather bracelet fastened around her own thin wrist. 

"How is he?" Pansy asks, and Althea shakes her head. 

"I don't know." Althea sounds tired. Fragile. "He says he won't take a drink. I promised him I'd come back tomorrow for tea."

Pansy hopes Mitchell Whitaker doesn't turn to drink now, if not for his sake, then for his daughter's. She doesn't think Althea could forgive herself if her father fell off the wagon because of her. She holds out her hand. "Want to come home with me?" she asks. "I can make a brilliant spag bol. Draco taught me."

Althea's smile is faint. "Bribing me, Parkinson?"

"Telling you I don't think you should be alone right now actually." Pansy watches Althea, studies her wan, worn face. "Let me cook for you." It's the only thing Pansy knows to do right now. Her grandmother had always cooked when Pansy was upset. It seems the thing to do for Althea.

"All right," Althea says, and her fingers curl around Pansy's as they walk down the hallway together. "I think I'd like that."

So, Pansy thinks, the warmth of Althea's hand on hers, would she. 

They'll deal with the rest of it tomorrow. There's always another day.

***

"Harry," Draco calls out as he steps through the Floo in Grimmauld Place. He's tired and worn out; it's been a long day at work, and Draco's spent the last hour of it being interrogated by Mathias Thygesen. At least Granger'd been there with him; there'd been more than once when she'd pulled Thygesen back from a particular line of questioning about his father or their family connections that Draco hadn't wanted to deal with. When he'd thanked her afterwards, a bit stiffly perhaps but well-meaning nonetheless, she'd just given him that half-smile of hers and told him she'd promised Harry she'd be there.

And Draco hadn't been able to object to that at all. He's glad, in fact, that Harry'd been looking after him; Draco'd seen how exhausted Durant had been after his interview. Luxembourg favours a fast and quick interrogation style, one that's quite effective, Draco thinks. The questions come from all sides, twisting and turning the interviewee around. There'd been a moment Draco thinks he might have admitted to prior knowledge of Dee's plan out of sheer confusion; fortunately, Granger had rephrased the question to let him off a hook he hadn't even known he'd impaled himself on until Thygesen's face had lit up. 

Draco slides out of his jacket, tosses it on the arm of the sofa. "Harry," he calls again. They'd arranged to meet back here and walk down the street to their favourite Greek restaurant. Draco's bloody starving, and he's already ten minutes later than he'd told Harry he'd be. 

"He's not here yet." Ronald Weasley walks through the doorway of the library, a glass of firewhisky in his hand. He takes a sip, leans against the doorjamb. "How'd today go?"

Draco's silent for a moment, just staring at Weasley. It's taking him a moment to comprehend the man standing here, drinking what looks like Harry's best bottle of Ogden's. "What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?" Draco demands finally. He's not in the mood for a Weasley. Not today at least. 

Weasley's eyebrow goes up. "Interesting," he says, and he takes another sip of the firewhisky. When he lowers it, he smacks his lips together. "Good stuff." He raises his glass. "I could have Kreacher pour you a finger or two, if you like."

"I rather think," Draco says stiffly, "that I could ask my own house elf for a drink, thank you ever so much." He folds his arms across his chest as if warding the ginger away. "You haven't answered my question."

Weasley pushes himself off the door jamb and walks past Draco, going to sit on one of the leather chesterfields flanking the hearth. "I'm here to see Harry," he says, settling against the corner of the sofa. He stretches his feet out, resting his trainers on the low table between the chesterfields. "Hermione and I have access to the Floo wards in _Harry's_ house." The look Weasley gives him is pointed. 

"How delightful." Draco rolls his eyes and walks over to one of the leather chairs opposite the hearth, dropping into it with an annoyed huff. The house warms around them, a soft golden light coming out of the lamps. 

At that, Weasley looks around. "Nice. Harry said the house likes you."

"The house bloody loves me," Draco snaps. He eyes Weasley. "Harry and I have plans to go to dinner tonight, so don't think you're staying." Draco knows he should be nicer; Harry'll be irritated if Weasley flounces off in a huff, but Draco's ability to give a damn fucked off about forty minutes ago. He snaps his fingers. "Kreacher." 

Kreacher pops into the doorway, shuffles a few steps into the room, scratching his hip as he does. "Yes, Master Draco?"

"A wine, if you will." Draco knows he's being a bit of prat, but he'll be damned if Weasley doesn't understand that Grimmauld Place is his now too. In its own odd way. Before Kreacher can ask, Draco says, "Any vintage will do as long as it's red."

"There is being the bottle Master Harry Potter opened last night," Kreacher says. "It is taking Kreacher half the day to be washing the stains out of the masters' sheets." He gives Draco a disappointed look. "Master Draco is being more careful--"

"Yes, yes." Draco flicks his fingers at Kreacher, desperate to get him to be quiet. "Just a glass, please." 

Kreacher frowns, but he disappears with a soft pop.

Weasley's mouth twitches up to one side. "All over the sheets, yeah?" He lifts his glass up to his mouth. "Hermione and I tried that once, but we haven't a house elf to charm the sheets clean again. Had to go to BHS and buy a new set. Hermione was really narked off at me because I'd dressed the bed in our best linens that night, the ones we were given by her mum and dad for a wedding present." He grimaces, then his face relaxes into a wide smile. "Worth it though. Wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't writhed about every time I went down on her tits. Sent the wine everywhere."

"That's really not something I need to know," Draco says, and Weasley just snorts. 

"Back at you, mate," Weasley says, as Kreacher pops back into the library with a glass of red wine that he hands Draco. "Don't really want to know where the rest of that went."

Draco thinks of last night, of the way he'd let Harry drink wine from his skin, lapping it from the faint dip of his belly, the crease of his thigh. Neither one of them had wanted to talk, not really. Not after what they'd been through that day. Nicholas being part of it all, and Draco doesn't want to think about that, about the way Harry had reacted when he'd seen Nicholas standing in front of them, when Nicholas had said the things he'd said. Draco curls his fingers around the stem of his glass, his finger stroking along the base of the bowl. He swirls the wine, watching as it sloshes up the side of the glass. His stomach flips, twists a bit the way it always does when he remembers his time with Nicholas. 

Nicholas had been awful. Draco hasn't even told Blaise and Pansy the worst of it. Not really. They know enough, but he's never brought up the viciousness of Nicholas, the way he'd intimidated Draco physically, emotionally. And Draco had thought he'd deserved it for a while. Thought it was recompense for the way he'd been as a teenager. And maybe there was a part of him that sought it out, that antagonised Nicholas when he knew not to be that stupid, but that was all Draco had known in a way. That anger. That sense of being used. 

Draco's never been very good at relationships. Not until Harry, and really, Draco's not even certain he's doing well at this one. He hadn't meant to walk away on Tuesday night. It'd been stupid of him, really. He knows that, and he'd regretted it instantly. But he doesn't know what to do with Harry sometimes, doesn't know how to accept this overwhelming need of Harry's to protect him, to keep him safe as if he's wrapped in cotton wool.

"You're lost in thought," Weasley says, and Draco looks up at him in surprise. He hadn't realised it'd been so obvious. Weasley leans forward, sets his glass on the coffee table. "Want to talk about it?" His face is sympathetic. "Hermione said you'd be going through Luxembourg bollocks today."

"Granger needs to remember there's Ministry confidentiality in play," Draco says, but his words haven't any bite to them. 

Weasley shrugs. "I'm her husband. She tells me things, same as Harry tells you."

"I'm not Harry's husband," Draco says a bit tightly, refusing to let that possibility linger in his thoughts. His hopes. 

"Maybe not yet," Weasley says, and his voice is thoughtful. He looks around the library, taking in the way the house has settled around them, warm and comfortable. "But you're something to him."

A faint heat spreads across Draco's cheeks, and he looks away. Takes a sip of his wine. It's peppery and rich against his tongue; as Draco recalls, the bottle was a shiraz. He holds the glass between his fingers, letting the bowl rest against them. The windows are open just enough to let the fragrance of the garden drift through, soft and delicate in the evening warmth. 

It's madness that overtakes him, Draco knows, but he looks over at Weasley and says, "How do you handle him when he gets overprotective?"

"Harry?" Weasley rests his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between his thighs. He studies Draco, and Draco nods. Really, who the hell else would he be talking about, Draco wants to say, but he keeps his tongue. For now at least. Weasley frowns, then sighs. "It's hard. Harry's...well. He's Harry. He worries about taking care of the rest of us. Always has since we were kids, you know. All the things we did during the war--Harry still thinks he dragged us into them, Hermione and me. He's no idea--"

"You would have gone with him anyway," Draco says quietly. 

Weasley just looks at Draco, his ginger hair falling into his face. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "That's just what you do for Harry, right?"

And Draco knows exactly what Weasley means. He'd go to the ends of the earth if Harry asked him to. Even if it broke his heart in the process. Draco takes a sip of his wine, the glass trembling only slightly in his hand. It's not something he wants to admit to Weasley. Or himself for that matter. Instead he says, "I'm worried about him, you know."

"Because?" Weasley reaches for his firewhisky, and it strikes Draco that this is the first real conversation he's had with Weasley without Harry around. Draco turns his glass in his fingers, chews his lip. He leans back in his chair with a quiet sigh. 

"His temper," Draco says after a moment. He brushes his hair back behind one ear and looks over at Weasley. "He set a chair on fire yesterday in a person of interest's office."

Weasley winces. "I thought the Mind Healer was helping."

"Freddie?" Draco asks, and Weasley nods. "She is, but he hasn't been to her for a while." Draco doesn't like that. It'd taken him some prodding before Harry had admitted it to him. "He says she's on holiday."

"It's August, and she's French," Weasley points out. "He could be telling the truth."

Possibly, Draco knows. Paris practically shuts down in late summer. Still, he'd seen the way Harry's eyes had shifted when he'd said that, and Draco suspects Harry's trying to push it off, to not do the work he needs to because it's getting harder. He lifts his glass to his mouth, takes a drink, letting the wine slide down his throat before he looks back over at Weasley. "I've told him to be careful," Draco says, his voice quiet. "He's already lost his temper in front of Griselda Marchbanks." That's another thing Harry hadn't wanted to admit. Draco doesn't know what to do about any of this. He doesn't know how to keep Harry safe, and isn't that the irony of it all? As much as he's resisting Harry trying to protect him, Draco's wanting to do the same for Harry. Because someone fucking has to. Harry's too bloody Gryffindor to live sometimes, and that terrifies Draco more than he'll admit. 

Weasley's just looking at Draco, and his face softens. "You really are mad about him, aren't you?" he murmurs. 

"I thought that much was obvious," Draco says, and he glances away, suddenly uncomfortable. He takes another sip of wine. He could walk away right now if he wanted to, send Weasley packing. But there's something almost calming about Weasley's presence, as much as Draco doesn't want to admit it. Weasley's part of Harry's life, and Draco likes that, in a strange way. 

"Sometimes I forget," Weasley says. "I've spent most of my life thinking you're a giant twat. It gets in the way every so often." 

Draco oddly appreciates Weasley's frankness. "Don't worry. I'm still a giant twat." He gives Weasley a sardonic smile. "But you're also one yourself."

"Never would say otherwise, mate," Weasley says cheerfully. He drains his firewhisky and sets the glass down, leaning back into the sofa, crossing one ankle over his knee, his trainers scuffed at the toes. He's in ratty jeans and an old t-shirt; it's hard to remember he's one of the wealthiest business owners in Diagon now. Weasley's watching Draco carefully, scratching at his belly. His t-shirt rides up enough for Draco to catch a glimpse of a taut, freckled stretch of pale skin. "But going back to Harry's temper…" He sighs, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It's always been bad. You ought to have been friends with him in fifth year. Bloody impossible he was back then, always shouting about something. But it's been worse, in a different way, since the end of the war."

"The uncontrollable magic," Draco says, and Weasley nods. 

"It's the trauma," Weasley says. "At least that's what the Healers said at first. It was supposed to get better, to go away--"

Draco leans forward, his wine glass dangling between his knees. "But it hasn't."

"No." Weasley chews his bottom lip, looking uneasy. "Hermione and I've been worried, but you know Harry. Thinks if he ignores it, everything'll be fine."

"But it's not any longer," Draco says. He looks down at the dregs of his wine, swirling in the bottom of his glass. "They're going to make him look mad, you know." He glances back up at Weasley, a tightness in his chest, the back of his throat aching. "Marchbanks and her lot. He's objecting to the Death Eater Registration, and if they can make him look unbalanced…" A shudder goes through Draco. He's not afraid for himself. Whatever's coming on that front, he'll face. He took the Mark willingly, or as willingly as he could have done at the time. But Harry...Merlin. The last thing Draco wants is for Harry to go down over him. "I won't let that happen."

Draco's shocked when Weasley reaches over, lays his hand on Draco's knee. "We won't either," Weasley says. "Hermione and I. We'll do everything we can too. I want you to know that."

And there it is, Draco thinks. That protective urge that Harry doesn't seem to see in his friends, the one that makes all of them want to keep Harry safe. From others. From himself. Draco hesitates, and then he rests his hand over Weasley's. His skin is warm, his freckled fingers thick. "Thank you," Draco says, and Weasley nods before drawing his hand away. 

"Come over to the Burrow tomorrow after work," Weasley says, taking Draco by surprise again. "That's what I wanted to tell Harry anyway. It's Gin's birthday, and Mum wants to have a dinner in the back garden."

Draco's already shaking his head. He and Harry have been trying to keep things quiet still about their relationship. "That wouldn't be right for us to drop in--"

"Mum told me to ask," Weasley says bluntly, and Draco frowns at him. "She says it's time you and Harry showed up to family events if you're together--"

"How the hell does she know?" Draco asks, his own temper rising. Harry hadn't told him he was outing them to the whole Weasley clan, and if he did without letting Draco know, Draco's going to bloody well throw a strop the moment he walks through that sodding Floo.

Wesley just looks at him. "I told her," he says after a moment. "You can't keep things like that from Molly Weasley. She sniffs them out. The bloody woman knew I'd bought Hermione's ring the day after I'd gone to the jeweller's."

And that fucking terrifies Draco. "I still don't think--"

"We're Harry's family," Weasley says, his voice soft. "And we might not be your sort, but we're his, and if you want to be with him, you're going to have to get used to that."

Draco's silent for a moment, his heart thudding. "I think it's more likely you'll have to get used to me," he says after a moment. "I'm not really your sort, am I?"

Weasley smiles faintly. "It won't be easy, I reckon, but Hermione and I'll be there, and you'll have us beside you, I promise that. Gin'll be a good sport; she just wants Harry to be happy. Same for Mum, really. Dad and Bill might be odd, but they'll be all right in the end, and Charlie'll be fine with you if he remembers to come. George and Percy'll be the problems, but George and Angelina are with her mum and dad, and Perce never shows up to these sorts of things unless Audrey makes him. So you'll be fine, yeah?" The look he gives Draco is careful, appraising. "Say the two of you'll come."

And fuck, but Draco finds himself nodding. "All right then," he says reluctantly. "But if Harry says no…"

"Fair enough." Weasley stands. "But otherwise we'll see you there? Mum'll have the table set by half-seven at the latest." He grins down at Draco. "Don't be late or Bill's Victoire'll have all the good food demolished. She's a bloody scavenger, that girl."

Draco has no idea who the hell Weasley's talking about, but he nods. "Half-seven then," he says, a bit faintly. Harry's going to kill him for this, he thinks. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll be thrilled. 

Weasley looks down at him. "Chin up, Malfoy," he says, and he sounds almost gentle. "Harry's not the easiest sometimes, but he's worth it. Just, maybe talk to him about some of this, yeah? It's the only way, really. Hermione and I would have split ages ago if we didn't talk things through. And I hate to say it, but it'll be you that has to push for it. Harry's rubbish at that sort of thing. He always has been."

"Brilliant," Draco says with a heavy sigh. His sharp elbows dig into his thighs; he runs a thumb along the rim of his wine glass. 

"If it helps," Weasley says, "so was I. But I tried for Hermione, and now I'm all right." He shrugs. "Not the best, but not the worst either. She didn't give up on me though, and I reckon you shouldn't either with Harry. Not if you're half as arse over tits for him as I think you are."

Draco nods. "I'll try," he murmurs, and it must be enough for Weasley, who nods and moves towards the Floo. 

"Tell Harry to firecall," Weasley says over his shoulder, and he reaches for the Floo powder in the jar on the left side of the chimneypiece. 

"Weasley," Draco says, and Weasley looks back at him, his eyebrow raised, silvery Floo powder drifting from his fist. Draco clears his throat, then says, "Thanks."

There's a moment of silence, then Weasley gives Draco a faint smile. "You're all right, Malfoy," he says, and he throws the Floo powder into the hearth, green flames jumping up around him as he steps into the fire. "See you tomorrow."

And then he's gone in a flash of emerald light that fades slowly from the library walls. 

Draco leans back in his chair, feeling oddly exhausted. He lifts his glass to his mouth, drains the last swallows of wine. 

The laughter bubbles up inside of him, unexpected and strong, and Draco doesn't know where it comes from or how to stop it. His whole body shakes, and he bends over, trying to muffle it in his fist, but it's too much. 

And he's on his knees on the floor, his empty wine glass falling from his hands onto the rug, and the laughter's turned to tears, ragged, gasping sobs that wrack Draco's whole body with the enormity of it all, this heavy grief that's wearing him down, along with the fear Nicholas has brought back and his deep worry for Harry that Draco can't ignore, can't fight any longer. He presses the balls of his palms to his eyes as his breath evens out, smears away the wetness on his cheeks. He's on the floor still, sitting with his back pressed against the leather chair; he leans his head against the cushion, staring up at the shadows of the library ceiling. 

This is his life now, Draco thinks, and he exhales, the overwhelming expanse of his emotions settling over him, weighty and cumbersome. He loves Harry. He's terrified for him. 

And he doesn't know what the fuck to do, how the fuck to protect Harry bloody Potter. The impossibility of it is enough to break Draco's heart.

The house settles around him, wrapping Draco in the depth of its calm comfort. 

Draco closes his eyes and just breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The first 2018 Special Branch chapter posts on ~~January 2nd~~ January 4th (see [here](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/169168972145/hi-guyshope-everyones-having-a-marvelous-new) for an update). Stay tuned!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tables are turned, warrants are served, and the threads begin to come together, not without great effort on the part of Seven-Four Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2018, everyone! This update took me a bit longer than planned, but I hope it was worth the wait! Everything is topsy-turvy, in fic as in life, but strangely there's a balance in the apparent chaos. Sassy-cissa made sure my chaos wasn't actually chaos, for which I thank her profusely. 
> 
> Noe has a birthday today, so this is for her. (Happy birthday, my love. I can't imagine my life without you. You're the best wife, the best collaborator, and the best at telling me to sit my bum down and just fucking write. I adore you, and I'd like to shout that from the rooftops. <3)
> 
> PS I might also have a fic, co-written with Noe, in a Drarry holiday fest that will reveal tomorrow. It should update on AO3 if you're following me as an author, or you can find it on my works page tomorrow. Just in case you need more to read after this!

"Fuck," Jake says as Blaise's fingers press deeper inside him, long and slender, crooking just so. He grips the already crumpled sheets in his fists, the smooth cotton twisted around his wrists, his body taut and tense, his thighs spread wide as he pushes his ass back against the slide of Blaise's slick hand. Jake can feel sweat droplets slip over his heated skin, running between his shoulder blades, through the damp curls hanging over his forehead. Blaise has been tormenting him for a half-hour now, toying with Jake's hole at first while he sucked him off, bringing Jake right to the edge before pulling back, the bastard. 

Blaise just laughs against the small of Jake's back, dragging his mouth along Jake's spine. "Not yet," he says, and Jake can't suppress the shudder of want that goes through him at the soft huff of Blaise's warm breath across his skin. Particularly when Blaise twists another finger into Jake's already stretched asshole. God, but Jake loves the burn of Blaise in him, the way Blaise is slowly, carefully taking him apart. Jake almost never does this, almost never lets himself be topped. It makes him feel too open, too vulnerable, too exposed; he takes time to work up the nerve to trust someone this much with his body. He never does this with one-night stands, and it'd taken nearly a year of fucking Harry before Jake'd let Harry roll him face-first into the mattress like this. And yet, here Jake is with Blaise bloody Zabini, able to count the number of nights they've spent together on both hands and probably have both his thumbs left over, maybe a pinky too, and Jake's ass is as high in the air as he can get it, his whole fucking body trembling to have Blaise's dick breach him. 

When Blaise's other palm brushes the underside of Jake's balls, Jake hisses, arching into the touch like a bloody cat in heat, enjoying the drag of his hard cock against the wrinkled sheets. "You're killing me," Jake manages to get out. His breath catches with a slow twist of Blaise's fingers in him.

"Merlin, you should see yourself," Blaise murmurs, and then Jake gets a quick mental flash of his flushed ass and the swell of ruddy balls between his spread thighs as three elegant brown fingers circle in his hole, bent knuckles brushing just beneath the stretched ring of muscle. _Fuck, that's hot,_ Jake thinks, and he hears a faint laugh behind him.

"So bloody hot," Blaise says, his voice warm and soft against the curve of Jake's back, and Blaise's thumb strokes the swathe of sensitive skin between Jake's ass and his balls, making Jake's whole fucking body clench. 

"Blaise," Jake says, and it's almost a whine, he realises, only half-embarrassed by his own neediness. He can't make himself care, though, not when his shoulders are tense, his thighs shaking with desire. His skin is slick, and he can taste the saltiness of his upper lip. He's not going to last long when Blaise finally gets that perfect dick of his inside of Jake. "You fucker."

Another laugh against his skin, one that sends hot prickles dancing across Jake's skin, and Blaise shifts behind Jake, his fingers sliding out of Jake's body. There's an odd emptiness inside of Jake, a looseness that he's not entirely comfortable with but which excites him, makes his belly burn in a quiet, trembling way. "Is this what you want?" Blaise asks, his voice low, raw, and Jake feels the slick press of Blaise's dick through his crease, the blunt head catching on the quivering edge of Jake's hole. 

Jake bites back his groan, presses his forehead against his bent arms. He breathes in, smells the lavender scent of Blaise's sheets, mixed with the musk of their sweat, their arousal. The cotton rolls and valleys of the sheet are blurred beneath him; he catches sight of a mole on his left forearm that he's been meaning to have looked at by a Healer for ages now. 

And then he's brought back by a quick slap against his ass, hard and stinging, making his body jerk against the sharp pain.

"Focus," Blaise says, and his palm is smoothing over Jake's still burning skin, his touch both comforting and arousing. Jake knows the deliberateness of it; he's used that move on partners before, but it's different from this end of things, isn't it? He relaxes his body, exhales, his thighs spreading wider as Blaise nudges Jake's knees apart with his own. 

Blaise's hands are featherlight against Jake's back, his fingers soft and warm as they skim across Jake's skin. "You want to be fucked?" Blaise asks, so quietly Jake can barely hear him above the rush of blood in his ears, the steady thud of his heart, the rasp of his already ragged breath. All Jake can do is nod. He doesn't lift his head, doesn't do anything but shudder as Blaise's palms slide over his shoulders, Blaise's body stretched out over his. Jake can feel the solid heat of Blaise's cock resting between the cheeks of his ass, and fuck but he wants Blaise to slam into him, to take him hard enough to make Jake cry out. Instead Blaise torments him, turns his face against Jake's neck, bites Jake's earlobe ever so lightly. "I want you to say it," Blaise whispers into Jake's ear, and goddamn, Jake's whole fucking body is on fire. "Tell me you want me to fuck you, Jake Durant."

Jake closes his eyes, twists the sheets around his fingers. "I want you to fuck me," he manages to say, and the words sound hoarse and rough.

"Yeah?" Blaise's fingers are digging into Jake's shoulders; the weight of Blaise's body over his is pressing Jake into the mattress. He can feel the heat of Blaise's skin, the slickness of Blaise's dick. Jake's shaking, nearly undone, and he knows he's lost to Blaise, knows that whatever Blaise Zabini asks of him, Jake'll fucking do. 

He lifts his head, swallowing a gasp of cool air. "Yeah," Jake chokes out. "Please--"

Blaise swears and turns Jake's face, kissing him, his body shifting over Jake's, pressing Jake down, holding him still as his teeth scrape Jake's lip, his tongue presses against Jake's, claims him. Jake gives in to the kiss, lets Blaise take him, wants Blaise to ravage him, to leave him limp and sated, his body opened and aching for Blaise fucking Zabini. 

And then Blaise is pulling Jake back, his fingers clenched around Jake's shoulders, and Jake groans as Blaise forces him up on his knees and elbows. Fuck but Jake wants this, wants Blaise inside of him. His stomach flutters again at the thought. "God, Blaise--" Jake breaks off as Blaise slides down, as Blaise's beautiful prick is replaced by Blaise's beautiful mouth, soft kisses pressing along the width of Jake's crease, over his aching hole. Jake shudders, his head dropping down, his shoulders hunching. 

"Oh," Jake breathes out, and Blaise's tongue flicks across his sensitive skin, the very tip of it sliding into him. Jake can't move, can't exhale, can't do anything but feel the wet slide of Blaise's tongue around the loosened ring of muscle, knowing that Blaise is tasting him this intimately. Jake's done his fair share of rimming, that's for damn certain, but to have someone do this to him, to feel the press of a tongue into him, hear the soft groan Blaise makes as he pushes his face against the curve of Jake's ass, his fingers pulling at Jake's skin, pushing Jake's cheeks wider so he can fuck Jake like this--Christ. Jake's dick bobs between his belly and the bed, hot and heavy and swollen, and Jake wants to rub it against the mattress, to frot the fucking sheets until they're wet with his spunk. 

A drop of sweat rolls from Jake's temple, down his cheek. Jake presses his hands into the mattress, his elbows digging in as well. Arousal sparks across his skin, makes him tremble with the effort of holding himself back. He doesn't want to come like this, not really. He wants to come with Blaise's prick in him, wants to let himself go on a slow slide, wants to clench his body around Blaise until Blaise is shaking as well. 

Blaise drags his tongue up along Jake's ass, before pulling away. "Circe, Jake," he says breathlessly, "you taste so bloody incredible."

Jake somehow manages to turn his head, to catch a glimpse of Blaise licking along his bottom lip, his brown skin gleaming with sweat, his broad shoulders shining in the lamplight. _Fuck me, you asshole,_ Jake wants to say. Instead he manages to croak out, "Fu--" before breaking off into a deep shudder when Blaise's finger slides around the rim of his hole. It's too much, really, and Jake's toes are curling, his calves tight and taut as he tries to control his breath, tries not to goddamn beg. 

Blaise just laughs, warm and soft. Jake can hear the cap of the lube opening, followed by Blaise's soft breath, and then he's leaning forward, his slickened dick bumping against Jake's ass. "You want me to fuck you."

Jake pounds a fist against the mattress, unable to say anything. He pushes his ass back, gasps out a broken breath. 

And Blaise's hands are on Jake's hips, and Jake can feel the wet, swollen tip of Blaise's cock pushing into him, stretching him wider, and fucking goddamn _hell_ , this is what Jake needs. He groans, arches his back. 

"Careful," Blaise says, and he's trying to go slow, but Jake can't wait any longer. Jake presses back, impales himself deeper on Blaise's dick, and God, it _hurts_ , it fucking does, but Jake doesn't care. He wants to feel Blaise inside of him, wants Blaise to open him up, wants Blaise to fuck him senseless, for Christ's sake, but he can't say any of that, can't get it past his tight throat, his uneven exhale.

But Blaise knows. "It's all right," Blaise murmurs, and he rests a hand on the small of Jake's back. "I have you." And Blaise slides deeper into Jake. The burn is almost overwhelming, despite the lube. Jake's nearly forgotten how this feels. How intense it is to have someone inside of you like this. It's different from the other side; there's an intensity of knowing you're in another person's body, but having Blaise fuck him, feeling the slow press of Blaise's dick into his ass, well. Jake's almost overcome. He focusses on his breathing, on reaching a steady inhale and exhale. He can't, not really, not with the ache of Blaise seating himself inside of Jake. 

And then Blaise is still, and Jake can feel the soft warmth of Blaise's balls against the back of his thigh, can hear Blaise's ragged gasp. It fills the silence of the room, and for a moment, the world is reduced to Jake and Blaise, their bodies joined so fucking completely that Jake's not entirely certain where either of them start or end. 

"Fuck," Blaise breathes out, and there's a hoarse roughness about the word that makes Jake look back at him. Blaise's face is soft, wondrous as he looks down at the fusion of their bodies, and Jake doesn't know why they haven't done this before. 

Jake pushes back, not hard, just enough to make Blaise's hips go back with Jake's ass, to make Blaise glance up at him. "Move," Jake says, and his throat aches, but he needs to feel Blaise shifting inside of him, needs to feel the slide of Blaise's cock against his stretched hole. 

"Right." Blaise swallows, and then he's pulling back, his hands tight on Jake's hips, and fuck but it feels good, even as it hurts, even as it burns. And when Blaise pushes back, slow and even, and Jake can feel the press of Blaise's brilliant dick deep inside of him, Jake's whole body trembles. He grips the sheets, pulls at them, and oh, God, he sees why Harry hadn't objected to Jake fucking him most of the time. Not if if felt this brilliant, and while it'd always been good to be fucked by Harry the few times they'd done it, Jake doesn't remember his body reacting this way. But then again, sex with Blaise has always been goddamn phenomenal, hasn't it? The Veela in him, that's what it has to be, and Jake can hear the echoes of a laugh along the edges of his mind. "That good, am I?" Blaise asks, and he's thrusting into Jake again, and fuck but Jake can feel it through his whole goddamn body. 

"Good enough," Jake manages to say, and his hips are pushing back into Blaise's thrusts, his back arching with each strike of Blaise's balls against the back of Jake's thighs. "Just--" Jake breaks off into a groan, then gasps for breath. "Just keep fucking--" He cries out as Blaise slams into him. "Oh, fuck, yeah."

The room fills with the sounds of sex, with the steady slap of skin against skin, the soft moans, and the ragged pants of breath. Jake's body is hot and sweaty, his skin feeling as if it's been set aflame. He wants more, wants Blaise buried deep inside of him, wants everything that Blaise will give him. 

"Please," Jake says at one point, and Blaise pulls him up, holds Jake as Jake straddles Blaise's thighs. Blaise's fingers tweak Jake's nipples, pulling them, rubbing them, and Jake's head falls back against Blaise's shoulder. It feels so brilliant, this, and Jake wants to touch his swollen prick, wants to hold it in his fist, to slide his fingers down the hard shaft, but when he reaches for it, Blaise knocks his hand away. 

"Not yet," Blaise says in Jake's ear, and then he's biting at Jake's neck, sucking away the sting, and Jake's reaching back, trying to hold Blaise's shoulders, trying to keep his balance as Blaise slams into him again and again, and then he can't, and Jake's falling forward, Blaise on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. He groans against Jake's shoulder, fucking Jake harder and harder, his hips slamming against Jake's ass, until Jake's crying out against the sheet, his voice muffled by the rumpled cotton. 

Blaise doesn't stop. He raises up just enough to let Jake breathe, but he's still fucking him, hard and fast, his gasps rough and unsteady against the back of Jake's neck. "Merlin, your arse," Blaise manages to say, and then his body's tensing over Jake's, and Jake swears he can feel the soft brush of feathers across his skin, can hear the rough rattle of a Veela's cry beneath the quiet of Blaise's groan.

Jake spreads his thighs wider, pushes his ass back as best he can, and tightens himself around Blaise's prick, holding Blaise still just long enough for Blaise to shout, his body curving over Jake's, his arms shaking as he tries to hold himself up. Then Blaise thrusts into Jake, as deep as he can get into him, and he reaches for Jake, presses his body along the length of Jake's back, and Jake can feel Blaise, every bit of him, so tight and so hard, and when Blaise cries out, Jake tenses around his cock, pushing against it, taking Blaise into him as Blaise shudders and shakes above him, coming inside Jake. It's slick and sticky and sloppy, and Jake can feel a bit of Blaise's spunk sliding out across his ass as Blaise thrusts half-heartedly again, his breath hot against Jake's skin. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Blaise is saying, but Jake doesn't mind. He's breathing hard himself as Blaise pulls out of him, and when Blaise rolls Jake over, Jake reaches out to smooth a hand across Blaise's sweaty cheek. "Merlin, I--" Blaise breaks off, looking at Jake, and then he's leaning down, and his mouth slides over the swell of Jake's ruddy prick, catching it between Jake's belly and his own lips. Jake groans, reaches up to press his palms against Blaise's heavy walnut headboard, and when Blaise takes the head of Jake's cock in his mouth, Jake's body nearly arches up off the bed. His ass aches, his body's taut and tight, and the slightest slide of Blaise's mouth down the shaft of his prick makes Jake want to thrust up, makes him want to fuck Blaise's gorgeous face, to come down that brilliant throat of his. 

"Suck me," Jake groans out, and his hips writhe up until Blaise holds him down, and Jake can't bear to watch Blaise's head bobbing over his prick, swallowing him, licking him, bringing him right to the edge of _everything._ And then Blaise's fingers slide through Jake's crease again, the tips pressing into Jake's slick, spunk-streaked hole, and Jake can't take any more. 

He cries out, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the headboard, then the pillows, pulling one of them over his head as his hips thrust up, his body trembling. He's coming, so hard, so quick that he barely notices the way his heels dig into the mattress, the twist of his hips, the wetness that leaks from the corners of his eyes, the roar that rips from his throat, leaving it raw and sore as his body slumps back against the ruined bed. 

Jake lies gasping, spread across the mattress, only slowly realising he has a pillow in his hands, his fingers twisted tightly in the smooth cotton case. His heart is thudding against his chest, his body feels limp and sated, and when the cool air of the bedroom hits his wet prick as Blaise lets it slip from the warmth of his mouth, Jake breathes in sharply before letting himself relax again into the post-orgasmic bliss. 

Fucking hell, he's never come like that before. Not in his whole goddamned life, and Jake hasn't been a quiet, celibate little boy. He's a goddamn Durant, after all. It's in his blood to keep his trousers unzipped.

Blaise's face rises up over the fluffy swell of the pillow, looking rather self-satisfied, Jake thinks, a bit fuzzily. "All right there?"

Jake flaps a hand, unable to speak. He feels as if his eyes might have actually rolled back in his head at one point. His body aches, but in a brilliant way, deep and almost primal. He lets his shoulders sink into the mattress; the pillow slides from his fingers, the case catching on Jake's thumb. 

"No, really." Blaise frowns down at him. "Are you all right?" His brows draw together in a concerned frown. 

Really, Jake wants to reassure Blaise. Wants to let him know he's fine. Instead he just flaps his hand again and groans a bit pathetically.

It takes a moment, but Blaise's frown slides into an amused smile. "I shagged you out." 

Jake shrugs, swallows, and Blaise laughs, stretching out beside Jake's exhausted body. 

"Bloody fuck," Blaise says. "I've silenced the great Jake Durant."

"Fuck off," Jake croaks. God, but he wants to curl up and sleep now. Not listen to Blaise crow about how brilliant of a fuck he is. _Even if it's true,_ his mind whispers.

"It's so fucking true," Blaise says with a wide smile. He props his head up with one hand. "I'm just that good."

"And so humble," Jake manages to say. He closes his eyes, lets himself feel the faint ache and burn of his body. The bed shifts ever so slightly, and his skin tingles for a moment, and then Jake realises Blaise must have cast a cleaning charm. When he opens his eyes, Blaise is leaning back over to the night stand, putting his wand back on it. Jake drags his tongue across his dry lips. "Thanks."

Blaise is back next him, his body curling around Jake's side, his head settling on Jake's shoulder. "It's the least I can do," he says, his amusement still evident. "Having shagged you senseless." Blaise's fingers slide over the soft, dark golden hairs on Jake's chest. It feels incredible, Jake thinks. He loves the way Blaise touches him, ever so lightly, almost as if he's afraid Jake's going to disappear on him. 

Jake wouldn't do that. Not now. He couldn't bear it himself. 

He catches Blaise's hand, draws it up to his lips, presses them to Blaise's knuckles. "You're fucking amazing, you know." 

Blaise smiles faintly. "It's nice to hear out loud sometimes," he says, and then his fingers are sliding from Jake's, stroking down along Jake's sternum. He falls silent, and Jake wonders what Blaise is thinking. He presses, just a bit with his mind, but Blaise has his defences up, and Jake doesn't want to push too far. Instead, Jake lies quietly for a long moment, enjoying the warmth of Blaise's body beside his. 

This is something he could get used to, Jake thinks, and he lets that thought slide out, lets Blaise catch it. 

Blaise glances over at him, smiling faintly. "Me too." He rests his head against Jake's shoulder again. "I'm tired." 

Jake shifts a bit, looks down at Blaise. "Do you want me to leave?" To be honest, Jake's never certain how welcome he is at Blaise's flat. It's an odd boundary they're dancing around, the two of them. Then again, Jake thinks, there's probably a hell of a lot they're not really addressing, if he's honest. Sometimes Jake wonders if he should press things, if he should try to make Blaise open up a bit more to him. But he's learning that Slytherins are different, that what he has here with Blaise isn't the same as what he'd had with Harry, that there are ways to approach Blaise that require a bit more caution, a bit less frankness. So he waits, watching the battle on Blaise's face before Blaise sighs.

"No." Blaise spreads his fingers across Jake's chest. "I probably should, but I'd rather you sleep over tonight." His gaze flicks up towards Jake's face. "If you'd like."

That's a fucking ridiculous question, Jake thinks. "Yeah," he says carefully. "I'd like." He feels Blaise's body relax against his. Jake hadn't been expecting to stay over, so he hasn't clothes for tomorrow. He'll have to go back to the hotel in the morning to change, he supposes. There's no way in fucking hell he's going to do the next-day walk of shame wearing the same outfit as before. Not in front of goddamn Seven-Four-Alpha. Jake's a lot of things, but a masochist isn't one of them. 

Light from the street outside filters through the bedroom window. It's only just gone dark, and the street lamps are on, the glow of the neon signs of the shops below lighting the floors above them. It reminds Jake of one of his first apartments in New York, right above Atlantic Avenue. His street now is quieter, lined with trees and brownstones, but he still misses the bustle of traffic and the sounds of passersby. Jake strokes Blaise's shoulder. He wonders if Blaise would like New York, and that thought surprises him. He pushes it back into the recesses of his mind before Blaise can pick up on it. That's too permanent a thought for what he has going here with Blaise. Jake knows that. This is sex. Really, fucking good sex, but Jake's already done the long-distance relationship with Harry, and look how that had turned out. He's not sure he wants to put himself through something like that again. 

So he'll have his fun with Blaise. That's all Blaise wants anyway. He's made that clear. And it's better in the long run, Jake thinks, looking down at Blaise's face, at the sweep of his long eyelashes against his brown cheek, at the angles of Blaise's jaw, the close-cropped fade of his hair. Fuck, but he's goddamn gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that takes Jake's breath away, makes his heart stutter in his chest. There are things Jake wants from Blaise, things he can't let himself want. Blaise'll break his fucking heart in the end, Jake knows that. But he can't walk away from him. He won't. Not yet at least. 

"You're staring at me," Blaise murmurs, but he doesn't open his eyes. 

"Hard not to," Jake says after a moment, and Blaise's mouth quirks just a bit at the corners. "You're spectacular."

"Flattery will get you fucked again," Blaise says, and Jake can't keep himself from leaning in, brushing his lips against Blaise's. Blaise opens his eyes, looking up at Jake lazily. "But not right away."

Jake snorts. "You're younger than me. You're supposed to have a better refractory period."

Blaise shifts, rolls on top of Jake, pressing him into the mattress again. "Is that a challenge?"

"Of sorts." Jake smiles up at him. He lets Blaise pull his hands up over his head, nuzzle at the curve of his armpit. "I mean, if I'm staying the night…" He trails off, breathing in sharply as Blaise nips at the soft skin on his side. 

And then Jake's phone trills, loud and insistent from the pocket of his jeans crumpled on the floor. Blaise raises his head. "What the fuck--"

But Jake's already rolling off the bed. It could be Eddie, he thinks, and his heart's pounding as he scrabbles through his clothes before he pulls the phone from the pocket. He flips the clamshell open, not even looking at the number on the small grey screen. "Durant," he says, standing in the middle of Blaise's bedroom, utterly naked.

"Jake." Tom Graves' voice rings out from across the Atlantic. Jake's eyes go to the clock beside Blaise's bed. It's ten-twenty in London which means it's just after five in New York. 

"Tom," Jake says carefully, and when he looks over at Blaise, he's sitting up in the wrecked bedsheets, frowning at Jake. _All right?_ he mouths, and Jake shrugs, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. "What do you need? We're not scheduled for a check-in." That's not entirely true; Jake's a good two or three days overdue for one, particularly given everything that's happened lately.

Graves is silent for a long moment--long enough to worry Jake. And then he says, "I need you back here, Jake. Something's gone wrong."

"What?" Jake's leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees. He presses a thumbnail to his mouth, biting at the edge. He can feel Blaise shift behind him, crawling across the bed, hid shoulder brushing against Jake's back. "I thought you wanted me here--"

"I do." Graves sounds tired, Jake thinks. He hasn't heard the man like this in ages. "I'm not saying I need you back permanently." He hesitates, then adds, "I don't think. But there's shit going down here, and I need someone I can trust. This line isn't secure, so we'll talk about it when you get here. I want you on a Portkey tomorrow--"

Jake's stomach drops. He doesn't look at Blaise, who's moved to the edge of the bed beside him. "Tomorrow's pretty fast, Tom. I don't know if I can get one by morning--"

"Whenever you can." And that draws Jake up short. There's a faint tremble in Graves' voice. "Just get your ass back here. That's a fucking order, Jake." He hesitates, then says, "Don't come to the office. Call me when you're back on American soil. I'll meet you outside of the Woolworth. Understood?"

"Completely," Jake says, even though he doesn't. Not at all. 

"Good," Graves snaps, and then the line goes dead in Jake's ear.

Jake close the phone, stares down at it in his hand. He doesn't know what to think, what to feel. 

Blaise's thigh is warm against Jake's. He reaches over, lays his hand over Jake's fingers, still clenched around the phone. "He wants you back," Blaise says quietly. 

"You heard." Jake glances over at him. It's a stupid statement, he realises. Blaise could have made that inference from what Jake had said.

"Tom Graves isn't a quiet man," Blaise says, with a rueful smile. His face shifts into a frown. "What do you think it is?"

Jake shakes his head. "I've no idea." He truly doesn't. "But Tom's not the type to…" He holds the phone up. "Something's spooked him."

"Yaxley, maybe," Blaise says, and Jake nods. It has to be something like that. Only Aldric Yaxley could upset Tom Graves that much, Jake thinks. And that worries him. He's watched Graves face down fucking criminal overlords before. No one's ever sent him into a tailspin like Yaxley has. 

"I wouldn't be surprised." Jake hesitates, then says, "That's why I'm here. Tom can't move against Yaxley himself. He's been hoping Seven-Four-Alpha might." 

Blaise is silent for a moment, then he sighs, runs his hands over his face. "So you're going."

"For now." Jake turns, catches Blaise's hand with his. Blaise looks over at him. "He's my boss. If he calls me back…" Jake sighs, glances away. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave London. Not right now. Not with everything that's stretched between him and Blaise, everything that's unsaid. That won't be said before he leaves. 

"You'll be back." Blaise bites his lip. "We're not done with the case." 

Jake's chest feels tight, his stomach burns. "No," he says after a moment. "We're not."

Blaise relaxes. Jake can feel it wash over him. "Then that's it," Blaise says. "You'll go back for whatever this shite Graves wants you for, and then you'll tell him you're still working things on this end. Put your foot down, and he'll let you back. He did for all your Luxembourg work."

That was different, Jake wants to say, but he knows Blaise can't hear that. So he nods, tries to give him a small smile. "Yeah," he says, and he lets Blaise pull him back into the bed, lets Blaise wrap his body around him. Tomorrow is another day, he thinks. He'll deal with Tom Graves then. Whatever bullshit that might bring him. He'll go to New York, and then he'll come back. He's not leaving Blaise, not if he can help it. What they have here, Jake needs. "Fuck, Blaise," he says as Blaise straddles Jake's hips, leans down to drag his mouth along the angle of Jake's throat. "You'll be the end of me."

"Oh, I'm nowhere done with you, Jake Durant," Blaise whispers against Jake's throat, and Jake's skin prickles hotly. If it only it were that easy, he thinks, and then he gives himself up to Blaise's touch, to Blaise's kiss. 

Perhaps tonight, at least, it can be.

***

"Hey," Harry says sleepily when Draco climbs back into bed. "Something wrong?"

Draco doesn't answer for a moment; he smoothes the coverlet down around him. "No," he says after a moment. "I just needed a slash." It's the middle of the night; he doesn't want to tell Harry he hasn't been able to sleep, that his mind won't stop racing around in circles, that he's emotionally drained from his crying fit earlier that night before Harry came home. 

He's tired now though, and he wonders if he can sleep. Possibly. Then again, he doesn't know, does he? He'd thought he'd been exhausted three hours ago when they'd climbed into bed together, and he hasn't managed to drift off yet. 

Still, Draco lets Harry draw him close, lets Harry settle his arm over his chest. Draco likes the heavy comfort of Harry wrapped around him, even if Harry's practically a human heater. But there's a faint chill in the bedroom air--the house can always tell when Draco's too warm or too cold and adjusts accordingly--and Draco feels his body relax against Harry's chest. 

This feels right, Draco thinks, even as Harry's breath stirs the hair at Draco's temple. Harry's falling asleep again, and Draco lays his hand over Harry's, working his fingertips into the gaps between Harry's fingers. The remnants of the evening's panic are still present with him: the roiling of his stomach and the faint burn of the acid within it, the only now loosening constriction of his chest that makes breathing unpleasant, the tired, unhappy miasma swirling about in his mind that feels a bit like an emotional hangover. Even his eyes sting a big; Draco's glad the house had dimmed its lights when Harry came home. He hadn't seen the telltale redness around Draco's irises, the blotchiness of Draco's skin. 

Draco wonders if he ought to have talked to Harry when he'd come in, if they should have discussed Nicholas, if they might have worked through some of the worry they have for one another. But Draco hadn't wanted to talk. He'd just wanted to push Harry down to his knees, to press Harry's face to his trousers, to beg Harry to suck him, to let him not think for a bit. 

And Harry had. He'd pushed Draco's legs wider, loosened Draco's flies, and he'd sucked Draco's prick whilst Draco had twisted his hands in Harry's hair, arched his body beneath Harry's touch. 

It'd been brilliant for a moment, just long enough for Draco to shudder and cry out, to fill Harry's mouth with his spunk, to fall back, sated and breathless whilst Harry crawled up him, kissing him, letting Draco taste himself on Harry tongue. And Harry had rutted against Draco, had gasped in Draco's ear, bitten Draco's neck, told Draco how beautiful he was, how much Harry loved him, and Draco had thrilled at the sight of Harry's face, at the way Harry's body tensed and trembled against him, at the way Harry's come had spattered across Draco's belly, warm and sticky, and Draco had dragged a finger through it and licked it clean, revelling in the taste of Harry.

Draco had felt right at that moment. Had felt calm and safe, and he hadn't objected when Harry had swept him up, carried him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Draco had thought he was fine. 

And then sleep hadn't come. Darkness had filled the room, along with Harry's steady, even breaths, but Draco had lain awake for hours, his worry twisting and turning inside of him, growing every time he turned his head, looked at Harry lying quiet and still beside him. 

It's ridiculous, Draco knows, but he can't help himself. His panic had grown when Harry'd stopped moving, stopped snoring lightly. Draco'd worried that Harry was dead, worried that something had happened to him, worried that he had hurt Harry, that this was his fault, that he'd lost Harry through some wrongdoing of his own. There's no reason to it. No rationale. And Draco had put his fingers beneath Harry's nose, desperate to feel Harry's breath against his skin, only relaxing when Harry shifted, murmured in his sleep. 

Sometimes Draco doesn't understand himself. But he doesn't know what he would do without Harry, doesn't know how he could live, and that scares him as well, because how has his life become so enmeshed with Harry's so bloody quickly? Is he giving up himself? Is he losing Draco Malfoy in the whirlwind of Harry Potter?

"You're thinking too much," Harry murmurs against the nape of Draco's neck. "I can practically feel you vibrating with it."

Draco's fingers curl around Harry's. "I'm all right," he says. 

Harry snorts, pulls Draco closer. "Whatever, Malfoy." He yawns softly, nuzzles Draco's neck. "I love you, you mad bastard."

"You as well," Draco whispers, but he's not certain Harry hears him. 

They lie twined together, in the shadows of the bedroom, Grimmauld Place settling around them again. Harry's body is wrapped around Draco's, warm and comfortable, a heavy solid presence beside Draco. The house darkens the windows, freshens the air with a waft of roses and lavender. Draco knows it's trying to help. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, and the house sighs around him, a soft, unhappy rustle in the eaves that makes Draco feel guilty. He closes his eyes, wills his mind to stop spinning. As if it could.

Draco lies silent in the bed, his gaze fixed on the sway of the curtains against the windows. Dawn will be here soon, and he'll regret the exhaustion in the morning. He can hear the steady tick of seconds slipping by from the clock on the side table, the quiet drip of water from the faucet in the en suite's sink. Draco takes a deep breath. Exhales.

He still doesn't sleep.

***

Althea's sat in the lobby of the Barclays branch on Great Portland Street, just down from the Oxford Circus tube station. It's all gleaming glass and shining marble, and the chair is bloody uncomfortable, she thinks for the hundredth time as she crosses one long leg over the other. The edge of the key her father'd given her yesterday is digging into her palm; she unclenches her fingers and looks down at it. It's transfigured now--a simple spell had taken care of that--and it gleams in her hand, the bow a bit tarnished, but a number's stamped on the steel. _One-four-nine-six-three._ Althea turns it between her fingers. It's the last thing she has of her mother's really. At least for the moment, she supposes.

Her stomach flutters at that thought. She doesn't know what's going to be in the box. Perhaps it's already been emptied. Perhaps Antonin Dolohov and Corban Yaxley had found what they wanted in the end. Althea chews on her lip, her shoulders tightening. She hadn't wanted to bring all of this up again, to open wounds for herself and her father. But there wasn't another choice, not really. Whatever her mother'd been working on so long ago tied into this case. Althea's certain of that. She's spent too much time staring into Antonin Dolohov's arrogant face to think otherwise. 

Footsteps echo across the quiet lobby. Althea glances up; a young man in a charcoal suit and bright teal tie is walking her way, looking a bit awkward and uncertain. His engraved nametag reads _Mr Flume. _"Ms Whitaker?" he asks, and he holds out his hand as Althea stands. When she takes it, Flume's palm is sweaty. "I understand you want to open your mother's safety deposit box?"__

__"Yes, please." Althea holds up the key._ _

__"Oh." Flume twists his hands together. "It's only Clio Whitaker is the one who should be present, per company policy--"_ _

__"My mother's dead." Althea's fingers curl around the key again. She folds her arms across her chest. The thin cotton of her shirt stretches over her shoulders. "Nine years ago."_ _

__Flume's face falls. "I see." He hesitates, then says, a bit peevishly, "We weren't notified."_ _

__And this is bloody why Althea hates dealing with financial institutions. She's already tussled twice in the past year with the Gringotts goblins when her tiny vault had been almost empty, only a few Galleons scattered across the stone floor. But she doesn't get paid much to begin with, and part of her pay packet each month goes to help her dad. Staying sober's an expensive business sometimes, particularly for a man who hasn't been able to keep a job for the past half-decade. She meets Flume's gaze evenly. "I have the key, and I should be on her signature list." She vaguely remembers signing some paperwork the summer before her mother died. She hadn't paid attention at the time, but she remembers her dad arguing with her mum about how bloody irresponsible it'd been to have Althea connected with any of this. At the time, it'd made no sense._ _

__When Flume's shoulders sink, Althea's glad that her mother'd had the foresight to include her. "This way, please," Flume says. "And I sincerely hope you have proper identification with you."_ _

__Althea does, of course. She'd taken a driving course a year or two after leaving Hogwarts and has a licence now from the Muggle government. It'd been a practicality with her father, really. Bringing Muggles on Side-Along Apparition is frowned upon by the Ministry, even if they know about the wizarding world. Althea follows Flume through the lobby and into a small office lined with filing cabinets. There's a computer on a desk; Flume sits at it and pulls the keyboard towards him._ _

__"Your mother's full name." He barely glances at her._ _

__"Clio Yaxley Whitaker." Althea sinks into one of the chairs opposite Flume, watching as his fingers fly across the keyboard. He frowns at the screen, the light from the monitor reflecting on his sallow skin._ _

__"Box number?"_ _

__Althea turns the key over in her palm. "One-four-nine-six-three."_ _

__Flume's fingers zip across the keyboard again. He waits, looking rather impatient, and then he leans closer to the monitor, his eyes narrowing. Althea shifts nervously in her chair until he heaves a sigh, and says, "You're Althea Imogene Whitaker, yes?" At Althea's nod, he drums his fingers against his desk blotter, then turns in his chair when a printer screeches to life behind him. He pulls the paper from it and hands it to Althea. "Sign here."_ _

__Althea looks down at the paper. Most of it's a blur of legalese, but she recognises the three signatures at the bottom left of the paper. Hers, her father's and her mother's. The sight of Clio Whitaker's familiar, neat handwriting, slanted only a bit to the right and with just the smallest flourish at the top of the _C_ , makes Althea's heart ache. She runs a finger over her mother's name, her throat tight. She squeezes her eyes shut to memories of her mother's laugh, of her mother dancing her around their lounge, Celestina Warbeck on the wireless, the scent of dinner wafting from the kitchen. Fuck but she misses her mother. She'd thought she'd come to terms with Clio's death, accepted it even, in her own way. But now, with all this swirling around her, Althea's not so certain she has. _ _

__"Ms Whitaker?" Flume asks quietly, and when Althea looks at him, his expression is unexpectedly sympathetic. Still, he licks his lip, nods towards the paper. "Your signature."_ _

__"Right." Althea takes one of the pens from the cylindrical holder on the desk and uncaps it. She scrawls her name beside her digitised signature, then pushes the paper back across the desk._ _

__Flume eyes it, then nods. "Your identification?"_ _

__Althea leans forward in her chair, pulls her wallet from her pocket. She slides her pink driving licence across the table. Flume frowns down at the small, laminated card, then hands it back as he stands up. Althea follows, sliding her licence into her wallet, then tucking it away again._ _

__"Well," Flume says. "Everything seems to be in order." He walks over to one of the tall cabinets across from the desk and, pulling a set of jangling keys from his pocket, opens one. Althea watches him sift through a drawer before pulling out a small paper packet. "If you will?" Flume leads her through an iron barred door and down another hall. It's silent, save for the sound of their shoes tapping across the marble tiles. Althea rubs her arms; it's cold this deep into the bank, and she feels uneasy about all of this. Deep down inside, she's worried about what she'll find in the box, about what it'll reveal of her mother. Althea's not certain she wants those memories of Clio tarnished by anything._ _

__Flume ushers Althea through another set of locked doors, holding one open for her. They're in a long, narrow room now, filled with rows of narrow, beige metal doors, one on top of the other, each small door marked with a metal tag engraved with numbers. They're a blur as Althea walks past them, until Flume stops halfway down the room. He squats, his finger dragging down along the line of doors until he finds the right one. He glances down at his paper packet. "One-four-nine-six-three." He pulls a key from the packet and inserts it into one of the locks on the door before glancing up at Althea. "Your key, please."_ _

__Althea leans down, puts her own key in the other lock on the safety deposit box. Her heart's pounding; she feels a bit like she might sick up. She breathes out, and with a nod at Flume, she turns the key at the same time he turns his._ _

__The tumblers in the lock click into place; Flume opens the door and draws out a long, narrow plastic box before taking his key from the door. Althea pulls hers free as well, tucking it back into her pocket as she stands. She thinks Flume might give her the box immediately, but when she tries to take it from him, he frowns and steps back._ _

__"We've private rooms," he says, as if she should know this, and Althea feels her face heat as she follows him back out of the room and down the narrow hallway once more. He leads her into a small room with a table and two chairs, plain and serviceable, all of them. Flume sets the box on the table, then steps back. "When you're done," he says, "I'll be outside waiting."_ _

__"Thank you," Althea says, but Flume's already stepping out of the room, and she's left alone with the remnants of her mother's work. Althea looks at the box, so plain, so boring. She can see something through the opaque plastic walls; she wonders if it's worth her mother's death._ _

__Althea sits. When she lifts her hands, they're trembling. She rests them on top of the box; she breathes out. "You can do this," she says aloud, and her voice feels too loud for this place. Her fingers tighten around the edges of the box. No one's touched this since her mother put it here, she realises. She smoothes her palms over the lid, wonders if she can feel her mother this way, if there's some lingering magical essence of hers on this box._ _

__"Mum," Althea whispers, and the name catches in the back of her throat, makes it ache. You never get used to losing a parent, she thinks. There's always that emptiness there, no matter how many years go by. She draws in a ragged breath, then opens the box._ _

__There's a notebook inside, a stack of papers bound together with what Althea recognises as one of her old hair ribbons from when she was a child. She touches it, feels the roughness of the blue grosgrain beneath her fingertip. Her mother had always put Althea's hair up in two ponytails, brushing them until they shone and tying them up with brightly coloured bits of ribbon. Althea thinks that's why she's never cut her hair. It's less about looking feminine--Althea's never given a damn about that--and more about the connection to her mother, those mornings before primary school when Clio had sat her at the table with a bowl of porridge whilst she brushed Althea's hair out, all the while chattering to Mitchell about her work for the day. Althea can almost feel the warmth of the morning sun through the kitchen window, see the dust mites swirling in the air in front of her as she leaned forward to push a spoonful of porridge into her mouth during one of the few moments her mother'd let her hair go slack._ _

__Odd, the things one remembers, Althea thinks. In her memories, her mother was complaining about dull stories, the dreck of journalism, those articles that were nothing more than rewritten public relations rubbish. _I want to do something important, Mitchell,_ her mother had said, with a particularly firm jerk on Althea's hair that had made Althea squawk in pain. _Something that bloody matters, for once.__ _

___Give it time, Clio._ Mitchell'd just given his wife a fond look. _We all have to work our way up. You know that. You'll find the right story soon enough. I know you will.__ _

__She hates her father for saying that. If he hadn't, if he'd told her she'd no chance--but Mitchell would never have done that. Althea knows he wouldn't have. He loved his wife, was proud of her. He'd never have sabotaged her. But if he'd had, Althea can't help but wonder, would Clio Whitaker be alive today?_ _

__The papers are dry at the edges. Despite her mother's preservation charms, a safety deposit box isn't perfect for archival purposes. Althea unties the ribbon, sifts through them. Some pages are copies of what looks like a financial ledger; others are typed memos, all from various Muggle banks throughout Europe. Something curls up inside of Althea, that Auror instinct that she's learnt to trust over the years. And then she turns a page. Sees a bank address in Boston, an account under the name of Les Harkaway._ _

__Althea stills. This was dated March of 1997, she realises. Les Harkway. In 1997, Les Harkaway would have been sixteen years old. There's no fucking way he'd have an open account with Eastern Bank worth over nine hundred thousand dollars. Not even a little rich boy would have access to those sorts of funds. Althea's fucking certain of that._ _

__She flips though the notebook. It's in a code, one that Althea thinks she almost remembers. She's seen it before, on notes her mother'd made at the kitchen table, on scraps of envelopes and the edges of the _Prophet._ Sometimes it'd been nothing but Clio's shopping list for the market; sometimes it'd been scathing commentary on another journo's article--usually Rita Skeeter's. Althea's sure she can remember it with a bit of time. _ _

__A cough from the hallway catches her attention. Althea knows she can't go through this all here. Not with Flume in the hallway. She gathers the papers together, tying them back again with that frayed ribbon, before setting the notebook on top of them. Althea stands, closes the box. She'll spend more time on the papers at work; she's an hour and half late as it is._ _

__"Done already?" Flume looks up as she steps out of the room. His gaze flicks down to the papers she's holding against her chest. He doesn't look happy that she's taken them from the box._ _

__"For now, yes." Althea hands Flume the empty box. "I'll return these later."_ _

__Flume frowns, but to his credit he just falls into step beside her as they head back down the hallway. "You'll only need to bring them back along with the key. Barclays would be more than happy to continue storing them for you."_ _

__"Brilliant." Althea follows him back into the room filled with safety deposit boxes. Together they put the empty box back in, turning both their keys to lock it again. The entire time Althea keeps the papers pressed against her body, loath even to have Flume touch them. They're important, she can feel it deep down in the marrow of her bones._ _

__Flume leads her back through the bank. "Lovely doing business with you, Ms Whitaker," he says as they step into the lobby. He holds a hand out; Althea shakes it awkwardly. "If there's anything else Barclays might do for you today?"_ _

__Althea shakes her head. "You've been most kind," she says, with a polite smile, one which Flume doesn't return. He watches as she walks away, his arms crossed over his chest, his knuckles pressed to his mouth. Althea glances back from the pavement, the door closing behind her; she catches a glimpse of Flume reaching for his mobile, lifting it to his ear as he turns away. He doesn't look happy, she thinks, striding around the corner towards the alley behind the bank._ _

__She Apparates away._ _

____

***

"Sir, I insist. You simply cannot continue without talking to the Head Goblin."

There's a goblin pulling at Blaise's jacket sleeve with surprisingly long, strong bony fingers. Still, despite his annoyance, Blaise ignores the wrinkle in his summer-weight wool, striding along the corridor he's certain must contain Nicholas sodding Lyndon's bloody office. He thinks he has a trail of at least three or four Gringotts goblin trailing along behind him, all but chasing him as he makes his way resolutely to the third floor. Blaise knows he's close, here in the foreign exchange and wizarding trust section of the bank, and the carpet is getting thicker, the furnishings posher as he continues down the corridors. 

He's determined to find this bastard and serve the warrant on him that he's had to kiss bloody Wizengamot arse this morning to get. If nothing else, it'll make a shit morning better. Blaise doesn't want to think about Jake leaving his bed just as dawn was starting to seep through the bedroom curtains, doesn't want to think about the Portkey back to New York Granger's helping Jake arrange right now. Doesn't want to think about the roil of jealous rage that goes through him whenever he considers Jake leaving London, going home to his real life. A voice inside of him whispers _mine_ in a rustle of feathers, a rush of heat. Blaise tries to shake it away. He'd known this day was going to come, known that Jake was always going to go home, one way or another. Maybe Jake will come back like he's promised to. He tells himself it doesn't matter.

Blaise knows that's a bloody lie.

For now, though, Blaise has a fucking job to do, and he'd like to have it finished by lunch if he can. There are Aurors waiting for his Patronus outside of Wilton Hansford Securities; Blaise could have done this from the Muggle office, but he thinks Lyndon has less chance of wriggling off on a technicality if Blaise goes through the Gringotts side of things. He's only going on what Lyndon had told Draco and the guv after all. Fucking arrogant sod. He'd had to go off bragging about having a goblin portal into Gringotts, hadn't he? Like he was some sort of bloody favoured son at the bank. Blaise snorts. _We'll see about that once the goblins realise what kind of shit'll be dragged through their creative accounting as well._ Nicholas Lyndon's days sucking from the Gringotts teat are about to end; Blaise is damned certain of that. He turns the corner of yet another hallway, the goblin beside him sputtering in fury.

Two doors down, Blaise spies a discreet metal sign that says _Muggle-Magical Trading Desk_ , and he cheers inwardly. He's found it. Despite the steady complaints of irate goblins around him, Blaise marches through the archway, stopping only at a smoked glass door with the largest, nastiest-looking goblin he's ever seen. Even Blaise is a bit taken aback, although he's bloody well determined to get through that door, goblin or not.

"No admittance without a trader." The larger-than-average goblin folded his suited arms, blocking Blaise's way to the door handle. The other goblins crowd around Blaise's back, a gaggle of frustrated, worried voices. 

_Good_ , Blaise thinks. With the mood he's in, he wants to put someone on the run. He has nothing against the goblins, but they better not block his way to Nicholas fucking Lyndon and his dirty hedge fund. He flips out his warrant card. "Constable Blaise Zabini of the London Auror force."

The goblin just looks at him. "So?"

"I need access to this department," Blaise says, as politely as he can manage. 

"You have an appointment?" the goblin asks, and Blaise frowns and shakes his head. The goblin shrugs. "No admittance without a trader," he says again, sounding bored.

"We've been trying to tell him, Millshanks," one of the goblins behind Blaise says. "He won't listen." 

Millshanks scratches his nose as Blaise fumbles through his pockets. "Humans." He scowls. "Think they can stomp through anything."

Blaise shoves a Ministry-stamped parchment under Millshanks' nose. "Wizengamot warrant for Nicholas Lyndon's office. Right here." He points towards the door. "So, if you don't let me in there, you're in obstruction of justice and I can arrest you immediately."

The tough goblin looks entirely unconcerned. "Still can't let you in."

Blaise nods, pursing his lips. "I'm sure. I mean, I do know prisoners get killed occasionally these days, but it's not so bad terribly in the Ministry holding cells." He smiles, feral and keen, showing a bit of teeth. "If you don't hold me up longer than ten minutes, say, I'll make sure you get one of the nicer cells." He pauses for effect. "Twenty, and I'll make sure you end up in the disorderly pens where no one will find you for a week." He bloody well means it, too. Blaise'll pull whatever fucking strings he needs to in order to make this goblin's life a fucking nightmare, at least for a night or two.

With a sigh Millshanks glances at Blaise's warrant card, then the Wizengamot order. "How do I know it's not a forgery?" He taps the seal appended to the parchment, eyeing it critically.

Blaise raises an eyebrow then folds the parchment up, tucking it back into his jacket pocket. "You don't. But it could land you in a Ministry cell over the weekend for protecting a bloody thick wizard who's really not worth your time. And the minimum fine's a hundred Galleons for obstruction of justice." He taps Millshanks' lapel. "You like the finer things in life, don't you? Is that arsehole Lyndon really worth a hundred Galleons?"

Millshanks grunts, strokes his chin thoughtfully. Bullseye, Blaise thinks. Knowing what a bully Lyndon is, he'd expect nothing less, really. That arrogant prick surely lords it over the goblins--one of the most idiotic moves one could make in Blaise's opinion. Doesn't matter if you're dealing with the Head Goblin or one of the brawn. Goblins across the board despise humans, and, given the centuries of humans treating them like shit, maybe they have a point.

To the squawk of the growing crowd behind Blaise, which is now several goblins stronger judging by the increase in outraged shouts, Millshanks steps aside. "Not my job to hinder the Ministry." He looks away as Blaise grabs the heavy handle of the door and pulls for all he's worth. Really, Lyndon should learn that mistreating the staff gets you exactly nowhere. 

What he encounters on the other side brings him up short. He's physically in Lyndon's office, only it's in Muggle London. He can see a bit of street and high-rise steel and glass out the window--like Potter and Draco had said, this office's in the City, near Moorgate if he's any judge. Blaise has a queasy feeling, realising he's perched on the edge of a precariously conjoined space.

"Oh you fucking didn't," Blaise says, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the goblins peering through the doorway after him. "You're all in the shitter now. Complete violation of Ministry rules on space allocation and proper separation of Muggle and magical use--"

Another door in the office slams open.

"You goddamned hobgoblins, I told you never to come through without knocking--" Nicholas Lyndon pauses in mid-stride, his fingers pulling at the zip to his flies, a furious expression on his face. He recovers, smoothes his trousers, then his tie. "Zabini. To what do I owe the honour?" Lyndon's sleeves are rolled up; his dark hair's slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it.

Blaise notices that Lyndon's eyes keep flicking to the side, and when he looks, he sees a terminal with a computer screen active. Blaise realises that he could break the Muggle terminal if he keeps the Gringotts door open too long. Even with proper charms on the machine, the Gringotts wards are incredibly strong and are infamous for not playing nice with Muggle technology. Blaise leans against the doorjamb, trying not to think about whether he could be splinched like this, standing halfway between two worlds. It's not quite Apparating; the wards to pull the portal together are far more stable, and, for all intents and purposes, it looks like these two spaces have been conjoined for a while. Honestly Blaise'd like to get a closer look at Lyndon's terminal, but he also needs to flex his muscle, get control over the situation with Gringotts and then deal with Lyndon.

"Oi, you lot." Blaise looks over at the goblins. "I need your permitting documentation _now._ You have to prove that you've filed all of the permissions for this sort of spatial juncture. It's beyond irregular, and the Head Auror will want to have everything in triplicate. Or we might have to close the bank whilst the Wizengamot examines the case." 

At that, the goblins scatter, all but Millshanks, who's still looking away, whistling something that sounds a lot like Celestina Warbeck.

Lyndon has his hands in his pockets now. His eyes keep flicking from the terminal, which is showing some signs of having a distorted image, to the Muggle oil painting on the wall which Blaise would bet hides a wall-safe.

"Well, this is a nice set-up," Blaise says. He looks around him, takes in the heavy wooden desk, the plush carpet and the leather chairs. "Potter's description really didn't do it justice."

He enjoys the furious look that comes across Lyndon's face, followed by a cruel, smug expression that Blaise doesn't like one bit. He's seen it before, back when Draco and Nicholas were together, and even then it'd raised Blaise's hackles, made Blaise want to put a fucking fist in Lyndon's pretty face. For now, though, Blaise makes a note of it, reminding himself to figure out who the fuck Lyndon's been talking to.

"What brings you into the back-end of my office?" Lyndon doesn't look overly concerned at Blaise's presence, even after his visit from Draco and the guv yesterday, and that worries Blaise. Lyndon has protection higher up, or he thinks he does, at least. Blaise doesn't care for that idea. Not in the least. Still he's determined to forge on. He hates this manky arsehole, hates him for his brazen flouting of wizarding law, hates him for the haunted look Blaise had seen on Draco's face yesterday, even now, even after all this time. 

Blaise shrugs, smiling as the computer terminal fizzes, pops, and then the screen goes dark. He steps inside the office, the Gringotts door slamming shut behind him as he pulls the folded parchment from his jacket, holds it out to Lyndon. "I have a Wizengamot order for all of your files relating to this account number, as well as anything connected to the fund it belongs to." 

Lyndon's face is mulish. "Draco put you up to this, didn't he? That fucking piece of shit--"

"Did I mention," Blaise says, his voice rising just enough to stop Lyndon in his tracks, "that I need this immediately?" He glances out the window. "If you'd rather not comply, I've a squad of Aurors standing out on Wormwood Street, just itching to slam their way into your place of business."

"You wouldn't dare."

Blaise quirks an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I?" He pushes the parchment towards Lyndon again. "As I recall, you're quite aware of what I might dare to do." He meets Lyndon's gaze evenly; Lyndon looks away first, the way he had the night Blaise had told him to bloody well break it off with Draco. 

And Lyndon had. After Blaise had hexed him against the wall of the alley he'd found the piece of shit in, belligerent and pissed out of his mind. It'd been one time too many for Blaise, one time too many of seeing the bruise on Draco's cheek that he'd tried to glamour away, one time too many of hearing Draco parrot back the rubbish Lyndon had told him about himself, that he was shit, that he was worthless, that no one would ever want him. 

Draco doesn't know Blaise is responsible for the break-up of that relationship. Blaise hasn't ever told anyone. Not even Pansy. And for all that Draco had hit rock-bottom when Nicholas had walked away, Blaise would still do it again. Nicholas Lyndon had been the worst thing to happen to Draco since the war. There's no goddamned way Blaise was going to let Draco suffer through all of that. He'd done what he'd had to, what he'd hope his friends would do for him if he ever found himself in that place. Blaise just doesn't know if Draco could ever forgive him if he knew.

Lyndon takes the parchment from Blaise, scowling down at it. "This is utterly ridiculous," he snaps. "I'll have your bollocks on a platter--"

"Whatever." Blaise's gaze sweeps across the room. He steps forward, crowds Lyndon back just enough to make the bastard look away, his mouth twisted to one side. Blaise lets the rage that's twisting inside of him have free reign for a moment. He wants Lyndon to push him, wants to be able to call the other Aurors in, wants to be able to take this bastard apart, bit by bit. "Your files, Nicholas." He slips his wand from its holster, twirls it between his fingers just enough to be intimidating. "Unless you'd rather…" He trails off, glancing back at the window again.

"Fuck you," Lyndon says, and he clenches his jaw, squares his shoulders. He's fit, Blaise will give Draco that, but Nicholas drips nastiness in a way that completely spoils his physical appearance. He reminds Blaise a bit of Lucius Malfoy at his meanest, and Blaise wonders suddenly, as he faces him down, if that was the appeal for Draco, at first at least. Maybe even at the end. After all, Draco'd been neck deep in daddy issues and all that rot. Still is, in a way, Blaise thinks, although, from what Blaise can tell, Potter's helping him through that. 

Thank Merlin. 

Lyndon's looking at him, vicious and cruel, and Blaise is suddenly tired of all this, tired of playing the games, tired of dealing with this arsehole. "Files," Blaise says again, and he pulls a thumb drive from his pocket, holds it up. "Physical and digital, or we'll bring down this whole house of cards you've built around you like it's a game of Exploding Snap." 

Blaise knows he's won when Lyndon looks away, combing a nervous hand through his hair. "What do I need to do?" Lyndon asks, his voice weary.

_Eat shit_ , Blaise wants to say. Instead he taps a finger against the thumb drive in his hand, "I'll need a look at your computer." 

Lyndon scowls. "There's sensitive client information--"

"I wager there is." Blaise steps towards the desk. "If you'll move?"

The fury coming off Lyndon's almost palpable, and it thrills Blaise. Still, Lyndon steps aside. "You'll stay within the limits of the Wizengamot order."

"Wouldn't do me any good to break it," Blaise says. He sits at the computer, glances up at Lyndon. "Get me your physical files for the BBAN referenced in the warrant."

"Charlotte," Lyndon shouts, and a moment later a pale ginger girl who looks as if she ought to be a Weasley sticks her head in the office door. Lyndon scrawls the account number on a scrap of paper. "I need copies of everything we've filed related to this number, please."

Whilst his back is turned, Blaise flicks his wand towards the window, sending out the wispy pale fox of his Patronus to the other Aurors. They might as well have a bit of fun, he thinks. If nothing else having them hovering over Lyndon will make Blaise's day. 

Lyndon turns back to Blaise. "I trust this won't take long?" His mouth is a thin, tight line. "Surprisingly enough, I've a meeting with a Member of the Wizengamot myself this for lunch. I'd be more than happy to share with her my ideas for Auror reform."

Blaise gives him a small, sharp smile. "I'm sure you would." He glances over at the painting beside the window. He knows he's struck gold when Lyndon stiffens. "And I want to see what's in your wall safe. That's covered by the warrant as well." He's skating a bit close to the law, but Blaise knows there's language about items of interest that an Auror can exploit to his advantage. Millie'd taught him more about how to steer clear of the obvious traps from the legal side, if it comes to it.

"There's nothing in there--"

"Open it, Nicholas," Blaise says sharply, and Lyndon hesitates, then angrily flicks his wand towards the painting. The safe swings open, and stacks of money topple out, currencies from across the world at first, brightly coloured, followed by paper-banded stacks of American greenbacks, each one in denominations of a hundred. 

Blaise looks up at Lyndon. "That's not petty cash," he says lightly, just as he hears the pounding footsteps of the Aurors in the hallway, along with raised voices demanding to know what the devil they think they're doing, bursting in here like that--

"You fucking bastard," Lyndon says, as Barlowe throws open the door, his wand drawn. 

"All right here, Zabini?" Barlowe says, and Blaise just smiles again, this time wider, more open. 

"Brilliant," he says. "Feel like logging that dosh over there into evidence? Don't forget to log the serial numbers." They'll need to track them down, Blaise is certain. 

At that, Barlowe's eyes widen. "Reckon I could," he says as Lyndon shoves past him, towards the crowded hallway, shouting again for Charlotte. Stupid of him, honestly. Blaise has already caught sight of a furiously flushed older man through the doorway; something tells him that's Lyndon's Muggle boss. To be honest, he almost feels sorry for the twat. 

_Almost._

He slides the thumb drive into the slot on Lyndon's computer. It's time to nail this sodding shithead for colluding with known Death Eaters and handling funds against the interest of the magical state. 

Really, Blaise thinks, with a satisfied smile as he starts copying files onto the drive with a flick of his wand, this is far too much fun to be actual work.

***

"Where _are_ we going?" Pansy asks Althea as they make their way down the crowded cobblestones of Diagon Alley. It's a Friday afternoon in August, and one can tell Hogwarts is about to start up soon based by the number of mothers determinedly dragging their reluctant eleven-year-olds into various shops along the street, the occasional father at their side. Letters must have gone out recently; Pansy catches sight of more than one supply list clutched firmly in parental fists, the parchment crinkled, the ink smeared from one too many worried perusals. The first-timers are the worst, really, parents so worried about sending their precious tots off to boarding school in the proper style. Pansy wonders if they even remember what Hogwarts was like. At least the Muggle families haven't descended yet. They're worse than dealing with the bloody tourists down Trafalgar Square, gawking at everything they pass.

Althea glances back at her, sidestepping a family of four spectacularly blond children, their faces pressed to the front window of Quality Quidditch, oohing over the newest Firebolt model floating in the bright sunlight. "That friend of mine who has your scroll?" 

Pansy nods, an uncomfortable twist of uncertainty going through her, though she's not entirely certain whether it's the mention of the scroll or Althea's Ex, really, but what does that matter to Pansy, after all? She rubs her bare bicep. It's still bloody hot out here; Pansy doesn't know how the witch on the corner kerb selling lemon squash is managing the summer heat in her long black robe. Honestly, cooling charms or not, Pansy wouldn't be caught dead in traditional wizarding wear at this time of year. Muggle clothes are so much nicer. 

"She sent me a note this morning, asking us to stop by." Althea smoothes back a wisp of hair that's escaped from the dark plait she's wound around her head. She looks chic, Pansy thinks, in low-slung, black flat-front trousers Pansy suspects are from the menswear section of Marks and Sparks and a white cotton shirt rolled up to her elbows, the faint outline of an undershirt rather than a bra visible through the thin fabric. Pansy glances away, her face heating. Circe, but she thinks she's starting to have a pash on Althea, and that just won't do. Not in the least. To begin with, Pansy's a bloody connoisseur of pricks, and despite seeing Daphne and Millicent's fannies on display rather frequently in their Hogwarts dormitory--Tracey, thank Circe, had enough modesty to keep her knickers on, although Mills says that's just because she had a large birthmark right above her pubes--Pansy's never been interested. So this is ridiculous, really, and it doesn't matter that Pansy's just staring at the way Althea's mouth is moving without listening to a word she's saying.

"Are you all right?" Althea asks, her brows furrowing together.

Pansy just blinks at her. "What? Oh. Yes, I'm fine. Just a little…" She waves her hand vaguely. "Disoriented, I suppose. All the little ankle-biters around and whatnot."

Althea looks a bit amused. "Because they're so distracting."

"Something like that." Pansy follows Althea up the front steps of Gringotts, more carefully though because of her heels. It's a bloody wonder she hadn't twisted her ankle on the cobblestones, but the stabilisation charms she set this morning on her shoes haven't worn off yet, thank Circe. Althea waits for her at the top, reaching out with a hand to help Pansy up the last two steps. Pansy smoothes her rosy dress down, tugging just a bit at the hem of the skirt where it's ridden up. "So this friend of yours...she's in curse breaking, you said?"

"Has been for the past five years." Althea holds the door open for Pansy; the burst of cooled air that rushes through it sends gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. The Gringotts lobby is hushed and dim, the only light coming from the tall windows along the cream and gold walls and the chandeliers hanging above them, their crystals sending rainbow flashes of colour across the gleaming, dark wooden floors. 

A goblin steps in front of them. "Might I direct you somewhere, madams?" He's elderly, his shoulders stooped, tufts of white hair peeking out from behind his wide ears. 

"Curse breaking, please," Althea says as she flashes her warrant card. The goblin frowns at it, his bright eyes flicking between the two of them. "We've an appointment."

"Ah yes, yes." The goblin's head bobs, and he points down to an arched doorway at their left. "Down this corridor, please." His long fingers fold together. "Although I do hope you'll be less disruptive to our work than your colleague was earlier this morning."

Pansy exchanges a look with Althea as they head towards the door. They haven't seen Blaise back in the incident room yet after his visit to Nicholas sodding Lyndon. He's probably still in the evidence room with Arcturus Lipman, logging whatever he and the other Aurors had taken. Holding the door open for Althea, Pansy wonders how that little visit had gone. The only person who hates Nicholas more than she does is Blaise; her one hope is that he at least managed not to hex the arrogant pillock. 

They fall into step with each other, their footfalls cushioned by a plush burgundy carpet. The hallway's even quieter here, the lights a bit dimmer, the only sounds a few muffled laughs or conversations behind the closed doors they pass. Pansy glances at Althea, takes in her sharp profile, her long nose and angled jaw. Althea's not pretty, per se. Not like the girls who'd been picked first at Hogwarts dances, the usual fresh-faced English lovelies that had drawn the most of the boys' attention, idiots that they are. But she's striking, Pansy thinks, and perhaps that's better in the end.

"Are you still looking at your mother's files?" Pansy asks, and her voice sounds too loud in the empty hallway. 

Althea slides her hands in her pockets, not looking over at Pansy. "Yeah," she says after a moment. "Still working on the code Mum wrote in." She sighs. "I remember bits and pieces of it, but there's still enough missing that I'm not entirely confident about what most of the notebook says." She bites her lip, frowns. "But I'm fairly certain she was tracking money moving about between Europe and the States." Her gaze flicks over towards Pansy. "It ties into our investigation. I'm sure of it."

Pansy doesn't doubt that. It's been obvious for a while that whatever Clio Whitaker was looking into was something Antonin Dolohov had wanted to stop. And the Yaxley family connections...well. Pansy's had enough experience with the Sacred Twenty-Eight to know damned well how closely they guard their secrets. 

Look at her own family, after all.

Althea stops in front of a tall, heavy wooden door. _Department of Magical Curse Breaking and Hex Enchantments_ is engraved on a metal plate in the centre. She glances over at Pansy, almost hesitantly. "I don't know what you'll find out in here," she says after a moment. "You're certain you want--"

"Yes," Pansy says, before she loses her nerve. Whatever's waiting for her behind that door, she'll deal with it. Althea studies Pansy's face, her own solemn, and then she nods, turning the large brass doorknob. The door swings open, creaking beneath Althea's hand as it lets out a soft puff of warm, dusty air that makes Pansy cough. 

Pansy steps into a tidy anteroom with brown panelled walls that gleam as if they've just been treated with beeswax and lemon oil. A glass partition lines the other side, halfway from the ceiling to the floor, more panelling rising up from the floor to meet it along a wide ledge. A pink-haired witch sits behind the glass, barely looking up when Althea walks up and taps the glass, saying, "Hey, Mags, we're here for--"

"She's waiting for you in the back." Mags close the file jacket she's been sorting through and pushes her chair away from the desk on the other side of the glass. A flick of her wand sends the jacket flying towards a set of wooden drawers; the top one opens and the jacket settles into it just before it slams shut again. "Door's open." What door, Pansy doesn't know--she can't see one anywhere in the anteroom. 

"Thanks." Althea smiles at Mags, who rolls her eyes and waves her away, then turns to Pansy. "This way." She walks towards what looks like a blank wall. Before Pansy can object, one of the panels slides open, letting out a rush of warm air that ruffles Pansy's hair. "Sorry," Althea says. "Some of the rooms are warm, some are cold. Depends on what they're working on today."

Pansy follows Althea into a warm, stone corridor that almost reminds her of Hogwarts in June. It's brighter here, and as they turn the corner, there's another surge of air around them, rippling Pansy's skirt, lifting up her hair, as magic prickles across her skin. 

"Clean room," Althea says, and Pansy nods. She'd recognised the wards, meant to clean off any lingering spells or dirt fragments from their bodies. But now she's amazed by the wide, white room spread out in front of her, rows of workbenches lined up with artefacts sat on them, waiting for one of the curse breakers to come up and start fiddling with them. There are a few scattered about the room--Pansy thinks she gets a glimpse of Weasley ginger in the back--but it's a tall, dark-haired woman in a bright pink sleeveless shirt and black linen trousers that catches her eye. 

And Althea's walking towards her, a wide smile on her face. "Pads," she says, and the woman glances up, her face brightening before her gaze slides over to Pansy. 

"Padma Patil," Pansy says a bit primly, as Althea leans in and kisses Padma's cheek. She lets her gaze sweep up and down Padma's bloody gorgeous body. Fuck, she thinks. There's no competition with that, is there? Not against those long legs and brilliant tits. Not to mention that face, perfectly made up, with a charming cat's eye flick to her liner Pansy still has yet to master. And now Pansy feels hot and disheveled, all too aware of her pug nose and her rumpled, sweaty hair. "I didn't realise you were Althea's..." She hesitates, then says, "Friend."

"Since Ravenclaw days." Padma holds out a hand; Pansy takes it a bit reluctantly. "Although we reconnected a bit more intimately a few years back." Padma's palm is cool and dry, the complete antithesis to Pansy's, and Pansy doesn't miss the way Padma wipes it off discreetly on her hip when she pulls away. "Ran into Thea in the Leaky right after she left Hogwarts, and she bought me a drink, told me about Auror training." Padma smiles warmly over at Althea. "We were together for what? A year?"

Althea shrugs. "Something like that." She's watching Padma closely, a bit too much for Pansy's liking. "Then they sent you to Kyoto for six months." Her voice hardens a bit. "Which turned into another two years."

"Yes." Padma's smile fades a bit; she glances away, as does Althea. There's a story there, Pansy thinks. "But I'm back now." Padma fiddles with a button on her shirt; her gaze flicks back towards Althea. Pansy knows that look. She's given it to Tony more than once over the years. Padma Patil wants back in Althea's bed, Pansy thinks, and that thought makes Pansy's shoulder blades draw together, an unpleasant bile rising in her stomach. "And I'm glad you rang me up," Padma says to Althea, her face soft. 

Althea just looks at her, almost impassive, but Pansy can see the way she swallows when Padma brushes her fingertips across Althea's arm.

"So you have something for us," Pansy says, a bit too brightly, the words feeling sharp and bitter against her tongue. 

Padma turns to her, a bit blankly; Althea's eyes narrow at Pansy, one eyebrow going up. Pansy ignores her. 

"Right," Padma says. She clears her throat, waves them over to another workbench. It's empty, save for a few curls of parchment. "So Thea brought this scroll to me…" Padma leans an elbow against the workbench; her shirt rides up just a bit to expose a small stretch of taut brown skin. A thin gold bangle slides over her slim wrist as she pulls the parchment over. "It took a while to break the wards yesterday." She glances up at Pansy. "Your sister's a powerful witch, you know."

That makes Pansy's heart swell with pride. Still she keeps her expression even. "Parkinsons usually are."

Padma's mouth twitches up to one side as Althea snorts in amusement beside Pansy. "I see." 

"So what was in there?" Althea asks. Pansy can feel the warmth of Althea's body as she leans across Pansy; Padma looks away. Althea's breath smells a bit spicy-sweet from lunch; Pansy thinks she must have had the mango curry the commissary'd been featuring today. For a moment Pansy wonders what Althea might taste like now, and she stills, barely breathing, oddly grateful that neither of them have any bloody skill in Legilimency. 

"Just these papers for the most part." Padma pushes them towards Pansy. "I haven't looked; I thought you might want to see them yourself. However…" She hesitates, reaches for a small wooden box, unlidded, then hands it to Pansy. "This was charmed in with it all. Fell out of some wizarding space between the sheets of parchment." 

Pansy glances down at it. There's what looks like half a stone seal inside, circular on the left side, jagged on the right, as if it's been broken in two. A raised pattern is carved into it, a small circle inside of a triangle bisected by a line. Around the edges is another raised circle, a bit flatter and wider, scalloped along the edges, the center of it filled with small sweeping, scrolling curlicues. Pansy stills, barely breathing, as she holds it up for Althea to see. 

"Shit." Althea exhales. "That's the--"

"Robichau crest," Pansy says quietly. The look she gives Althea is uncertain. "I don't know what the hell this has to do with my family." She hands the box to Althea, picks up the parchments as Althea frowns down at the stone. 

"Can I touch it?" Althea asks.

Padma shrugs. "Knock yourself out. As far as I can tell it doesn't have any curses or hexes on it. Nothing more than the charm that kept it tucked away."

Althea picks the stone up, turns it between her fingers as Pansy looks down at the sheaf of papers in her hand.

_Daddy,_ the first one starts, written in her sister's smooth, looping script. _D and I are lying low for now, given the trouble E has us in with this bollocks of his. Sorry I couldn't catch it earlier, but he's been a tricky one lately, hasn't he? I thought I knew everything, but I was wrong. Still, I nicked these from his files before the Aurors came. It's not all we need, but it's a start, isn't it? Promise me you'll try to keep P out of it all. You know she's always been a bit too stubborn for her own good; hanging out with Gryffindors like HJP can't be doing her any good right now. Love to you and Mummy. I'll be in touch soon. D._

Pansy glances away for a moment, her throat tight. She misses her sister, doesn't know what Daisy's mixed up in now. If she's with Godunov, fuck only knows where she is, or if she's even bloody alive any more. Pansy's fingers tighten on the parchment; she remembers her sister standing in her hotel room in New York, telling her she was disappearing, asking her to deliver this message to her father. "Merlin," Pansy murmurs. "What the hell are you doing, Dinks?"

Althea's hand settles on her shoulder. "All right?" Her face is concerned, her eyes worried. Pansy swallows, a bit painfully, then nods. She won't cry. Not here in front of Padma. Instead she glances down at the other two papers. They're filled with numbers, a long column on each one. 

"I don't know what these are," Pansy manages to say. "The numbers." She rubs at her cheek, letting her nails scratch her skin. The quick burst of pain grounds her a bit, keeps her from falling apart. "Maybe account numbers?"

"Could be." Althea sets the box with the stone in it down on the workbench and takes the papers from her, frowning down at them. "We could have Zabini run them through the system. See if anything pings."

Pansy nods. Her head's buzzing, her mind's whirling. She doesn't know what secrets her father and her sister are hiding. Doesn't know what this bloody half-seal is, how it ties her family to Jake sodding Durant's. None of this makes sense any longer. 

And she can't pretend her father's not involved in this somehow, that he's not doing something illegal. Her sister too. Pansy runs her hands through her hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands, her tousled curls catching on her knuckles. She wonders if her mother knows, or if she's being kept in the dark like Pansy's been. Really, it's not even a question. Pansy knows Daisy and Terry would have wanted Camilla to be kept clean. They wouldn't have said anything, but it doesn't mean that Pansy's mother hasn't figured it out. 

"Thanks, Pads," Althea says, rolling the papers back into a scroll. She slides it and the wooden box into a protective bag Padma hands her. "I appreciate it."

"Any time." Padma's watching them with those careful dark eyes of hers. "If you need anything else…" She trails off, shrugs. "Let me know."

Althea nods, and her hand's on the small of Pansy's back, leading her back out of the clean room and down the corridor. Pansy isn't really certain she's breathing; everything feels so surreal, so uncertain. She reaches up to rub her cheek again and Althea catches her hand. 

"Stop," Althea says, her voice gentle, and Pansy looks at her, blinks. "You're marking your skin when you do that." Althea brushes her knuckles against Pansy's cheek. 

"Oh." Pansy leans against a stone wall. She closes her eyes for a moment, feels Althea settle next to her, her shoulder pressed against Pansy's. Pansy exhales finally, and it feels as if her lungs are on fire. She grips the skirt of her dress between her fingers, pleating the folds almost mindlessly. Her eyes flutter open; she stares at the beige stone across the corridor from her. "It could be worse, I suppose."

"Probably." Althea's watching her. "This doesn't mean anything."

With a snort, Pansy looks at her. "That's rubbish and you know it." Her gaze slides down to the protective bag. "My sister just happens to send half of Jake Durant's family crest--"

Althea shrugs. "And my mum might have been tracking parts of the same case we're working on now." She leans her head against the wall, watching Pansy. "Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn't. We're coppers, Pansy. That's what we do. We figure out if there are threads that weave through different circumstances. Right now, all that matters is taking this in, tagging it, and trying to find out if it fits any part of the puzzle we're missing." She sighs. "Maybe your sister just liked the crest, thought it'd look good as a tea trivet--"

"Oh, please," Pansy says, but she's half-smiling now. "You're being ridiculous."

"Maybe." Althea laughs a little, warm and soft. The way she's looking at Pansy makes Pansy's heart skip a beat. "But you needn't buy trouble yet." 

And for a moment, Pansy believes her, before the waves of worry and fear come crashing down on her again. 

Still, perhaps that's enough, she thinks, as she pushes herself off the wall and follows Althea back down the hall. Althea's rightl. They're coppers. Whatever connections they can make, they'll make. And whatever unpleasant truths might come up about the Parkinson family….well.

Pansy will deal with those when she has to, won't she? She's done so all her life, after all.

***

A bead of sweat trickles down Harry's temple, and he rubs it away, casting the cooling charm again wandlessly. He doubts it'll do much good--it's been blisteringly hot for the past days, and by late afternoon on Friday the Ministry's sweltering. New York was hotter, he thinks, but of course the American buildings are equipped for heat waves like this. He rolls up his sleeves and tries to focus on the parchment in front of him. It's the weekly whereabouts count for Gawain, and he really couldn't care less. His team have been doing what they will, just saying they're running out to check a lead without marking it on the incident board, and he'll be damned if he knows half the time where they've been. Harry frowns, realising his left sleeve has unrolled, then sighs and rolls it up again. He's going to need to say something about all that bollocks this afternoon at the team wrap-up for the week, or he's not the guv he's aiming to be. They're a bloody team, after all. It's time to start acting like it again.

Harry sets the parchment down gingerly on the teetering pile in his inbox. He's got so much to finish, and he and Draco have dinner at the Burrow tonight for Gin's birthday, much to Harry's surprise. Still, he wasn't about to object when Draco'd brought it up this morning over their porridge and bacon. If Molly Weasley's opening her door to Draco, Harry's damned well going to walk through it with his boyfriend. Still, there's a hell of a lot of work left to do from this week, most of it the usual team head rubbish, all paperwork and budget numbers and reports for Gawain. Harry might even need to come in early tomorrow morning, although Draco'll probably have his head.

"Harry. It's almost time," Draco's cool, steady voice echoes through the doorway from the next room. Harry stands up, wiping his hands on his trousers. He frowns at his desk, then puts it out of his mind. There's plenty to worry about as there is, he thinks.

When Harry comes into the incident room from his office, he stops for a moment, regarding the frowning perfection of his boyfriend. Somehow, Draco always looks like the room is five degrees colder around him. He's hung his jacket up, but his sleeves are neatly buttoned and the wisps of hair escaping from the knot at the top of his head aren't even sweaty. He's dragging the end of a quill feather against his lips whilst he reads, and Harry shivers at the unexpected eroticism of that moment. Draco looks up, and their eyes lock. Harry wants to go to him, drag him away from here, just escape back to Grimmauld for a quick shag before the party.

"Musn't get one's hopes up," Draco says, breaking the moment by looking away. Harry swears he can see a faint flush on Draco's neck, and Draco's definitely left a love bite unhealed from last night, vivid and just visible under the edge of his collar. "Pans and Althea'll be here any moment."

"Where've they been?" Harry asks. There's nothing on the white board about what they two of them are working on. 

Draco shrugs. "Something about going off to follow a lead." He looks back at his papers. "I wasn't entirely listening."

Of course, Harry thinks, with a scowl. Christ but he needs to get his team back under control. For now, though, he's willing to calm his temper by watching his boyfriend scrawl something across a sheet of parchment. It's good to have him back in here again. Harry's missed Draco in the incident room, even with the way he can feel Draco's nervous skittishness through Draco's studied composure. Harry knows Draco's worried about going to the Burrow tonight. Hell, Harry's worried too, but he refuses to ruin the afternoon imagining everything that could go wrong. He tells himself that it'll be good to be at the Burrow again, among the earthy soundness and warmth of the Weasley clan. He's grateful Molly asked them both, and Draco already knows Ron and Hermione now, at least. Well, knows them better. If there's a deep twist of uncertainty in Harry's stomach, he tells himself it's just nerves. He'd already checked with Hermione to make certain Percy and George aren't going to be there; she'd assured him nothing would come up about the Death Eater Registry. Ron'd already warned his parents, made certain his father wouldn't say anything untoward. Harry's glad of that. He's still nervous though. He hasn't had a new relationship in a long time. Jake had been to the Burrow a few times, but only as a casual plus one. This feels different.

Like making a statement, in a way.

Zabini coughs from across the room, and Harry realises he's been staring at Draco for far too long. "Hey," Harry says, moving to the whiteboard at the front of the room. "How's the work on the files going?"

"Well enough, if I had any idea what we've found." Zabini has a stack of preliminary copies next to his elbow, and he's apparently thumbing through the evidence list of files from Arcturus Lipman and checking them against a parchment that he keeps scrawling quick notes across. "We did get a lot of stuff that made Lyndon nervous, but I wish I could figure out why."

"Who made Lyndon nervous?" Parkinson asks, Whitaker at her side. The door swings shut behind them. Parkinson's carrying a bottle of water, the condensation running down over her hand. She shakes it off. 

Draco looks over as Zabini bares his teeth. "We all did," Zabini says, "but Barlowe's team of Aurors helped immensely in the takedown."

Harry frowns, trying to figure out what's different about the dynamic between Whitaker and Parkinson. Whitaker's got what looks to be a Muggle spiral notebook in her hand, and Parkinson's got a protective lab bag that's bulging tucked under her arm. Harry doesn't remember any active lab work for their investigation--Pansy's been on call for general case forensics--so he assumes it must be related to some of the earlier raids. Most of that, however, has been filed with Lipman for case wrap-up this week.

Parkinson and Zabini fistbump as she sits down next to him, Whitaker dropping into the chair at the next table nearest to Parkinson. It's not her usual seat, as Harry recalls, but then again, things have changed since New York. His team has actually become a team, of sorts, even if he's going to have to pull on their reins a bit.

"All right." Harry crosses his arms, his shoulder blades almost resting on the whiteboard. He's squared his feet, and he's not letting Draco catch his eye, although he can feel him frowning. "You've all been working on your own stuff." He gestures to the separate objects and papers each team member has with them. "I know I've encouraged an independence initiative, but I haven't the faintest fucking idea of what half of this new material is. We're a team, we're supposed to be working together, even if we're going in different areas for the same investigation. We're supposed to share." He lets his gaze sweep across the room. "And I know you haven't been telling me everything. So that stops today."

There's an uncomfortable silence; the only one of them who meets Harry's eye is Draco. Harry sighs, runs his hand through his hair. "Right then. That was a piss-poor bollocking, but who wants to go first?"

Zabini raises a careful hand, a faint look of amusement on his handsome features. "Well, you signed off on the warrant, so I presume you know about the raid this morning."

There's a quick, dry laugh from Draco, almost raw in a way, and Harry wants to walk over to him, wrap Draco in his arms. Or punch the goddamned white board. Either one would work. For now, though, Harry just clenches his jaw, breathes out as Parkinson and Whitaker trade looks. They'd all talked about nothing but yesterday for most of the morning, so the whole team are up on the details of what's happened. Even Whitaker knows about Draco's ex now. Harry's not so certain he's comfortable about that. He knows Draco bloody well isn't. 

Harry scratches his ear and sighs, reminding himself that Slytherins can be the most literal creatures in the book when it suits them, but only then. "Remind me how it went and tell us what you have now."

Zabini gives a blow-by-blow account of serving the warrant to Lyndon, to great amusement from Whitaker and Parkinson. Harry's frowning, waiting for Zabini to get to the point, but noticing Draco's pale, watchful face and the shadows under his eyes. This is hard for Draco, Harry knows, but it's part of the case. They have to follow this lead, as much as Harry'd rather not put Draco through this. Still, he's proud of him for sitting there, only flinching once when Zabini said Lyndon's name.

"So then I made the bastard open up the wall safe," Zabini leans back in his chair, a smug smile on his face. "Wads of cash, just pouring out of the wall. We had the serial numbers logged then and there."

"What were the currencies?" Draco's lips are pressed together, a faint flush on his cheeks, but his head is tilted forward. His curiosity's been piqued, Harry realises, and he relaxes a little.

"A lot of different ones, but the bulk of it was packs of U.S. greenbacks in denominations of a hundred." Zabini glances over to the empty seat in the room, the one nearest the door. "Jake's going to courier the list for us to the MACUSA currency department."

Whitaker raises an eyebrow. "Where is Durant? Are Luxembourg pressing further on the investigation?"

Zabini's expression is thunderous, and Harry's keen to change the subject.

"He might join us soon. He's working on a Portkey with Hermione." Harry pauses as Whitaker frowns. He cuts her off before she can ask. "New York called him back. He's likely to be with us again next week, but the details are uncertain."

Parkinson inhales, then rests a hand for a moment on Zabini's arm. He nods, then looks at his paperwork. He doesn't meet Harry's gaze. Draco looks between the two of them thoughtfully, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows. 

"Anyway," Zabini says, rubbing the back of his neck, "as for what it all means, well, there's definitely a connection through Eastern Bank in Boston. The account comes up multiple times in the computer files." Zabini pauses, eyeing Harry. "We can check it out with the Americans, guv, but it's going to be hell to get through the U.S. regulatory system without better grounds for investigation."

"Eastern Bank in Boston?" Whitaker sits up and reaches for the Muggle notebook and papers on her desk. She shuffles for a moment, then hands over a single sheet to Parkinson who passes it on to Zabini. "It wouldn't happen to be this one, would it?"

Zabini frowns at it for a moment, his lips moving as he scans the columns of information. He swears. "Fuck, where did you get this?" He glances up; the look on his face mirrors Harry's surprise.

"My mum was investigating this." Whitaker gestures to the stack of papers in front of her. "These are bank letters. They're from across Europe and the US." 

"This account, though." Zabini's nothing short of awestruck. He waves the paper in the air. "It's registered to Les Harkaway."

Whitaker nods, her expression intent. "Harkaway would have been sixteen at this time--with nine hundred thousand dollars in the account then." She looks skeptical. "It's not even set up as a trust fund. Just a regular bank account.

Zabini scans his own papers, comparing them. "Here we go." He whistles softly, shaking his head before he glances up at them. "According to Lyndon's records, it's up to thirty million now. No deposits in the past two months, but it had some activity back in May. The fund paid into it on the third of May and the sixteenth. Half a million U.S. dollars the first time, sixty thousand the second."

"Shit," Parkinson says. "Wouldn't those amounts trigger international banking regulations?"

"The half a million, maybe." Zabini chews on his lip. "I'll check it out. See if anything came up in the regulatory systems on our end."

"Do that." Harry turns and sketches out columns on the white board. He places Lyndon and Gringotts at the top, then labels another column with _C. Whitaker._ He starts sketching the financial links on the board, as his team have just put them together. Following the data keeps him from thinking about the fact that he's just learning all of this now, which would lead to shouting at them all for keeping things to themselves--he can't blame the Slytherins that much, that's just who they are, but Whitaker should have bloody well known better--and really, that wouldn't improve the situation. It's a hot Friday and they're all tired.

There's a pronounced rustling as Zabini consults his own parchment of notes and then the paper Whitaker's just given him, checking each of them against the list of evidence. "There's another U.S, account tied into the BBAN from Lyndon that shows debits drawn from France, also Belgium, as well as New York and Savannah, Georgia. Fifty million in that account." He looks up. "Comes from Boston as well, but another bank. Danvers Savings, this time."

As Harry draws another arrow, Draco stands up and approaches Whitaker. "May I take a look at the letters?" She nods, and he sits next to her, leaning to look at the spread of papers across the desk.

Harry's patience finally gives. He sets the white board quill down, a surge of annoyance going through him as he looks at what he's sketched out. This is so bloody much more than they've had for _ages._ "Whitaker," he snaps, turning on her, "why didn't you tell me earlier about this? Are you protecting someone?" He doesn't want to push her; he knows about her dad. But goddamn it, she's his bloody sergeant and of all of them, she's supposed to keep him informed on his own bloody investigation. "What the fuck have you been hiding?"

Whitaker crosses her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed slightly over Harry's shoulder. He knows that stubborn set of her jaw; he's done it often enough himself when he's been dressed down by Gawain. "I didn't know about these until yesterday," she says, her voice even. "I just got the information from Dad."

Draco wrinkles his brow at Harry, shakes his head, just as Parkinson huffs. "Get off her case, guv," Parkinson says, a bit sharply. "I was there. It took a lot to convince her dad, since these are the papers that got her mother killed." She pauses, looks over at Whitaker. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Whitaker nods in Parkinson's direction, swallows hard, and Harry feels a right bloody arse, doesn't he? Probably his own fault for flying off the handle. Just as he's about to make some sort of apology, Jake comes through the door, cutting Harry off.

"What did I miss?" Jake trades a very specific look with Blaise, one that Harry'd had directed at him not so long ago, then sits in the remaining chair.

Harry can feel prickly heat between the two of them from here. He remembers being on the other end of that look, though not, as he thinks about it now, with quite the same intensity. And maybe that's for the best, Harry thinks as he gives Jake a quick nod of acknowledgement. "We're putting together financials. We've had a few different leads. Did Hermione get you a Portkey?"

As Jake is answering yes to Harry's question, Draco looks up from the papers he's been leaning over and asks, "Blaise, what's that account number again, the one in Boston?"

Zabini hands his notes to Parkinson who gives them to Whitaker who passes them to Draco. "It's circled there," Zabini says. "About halfway down." 

Draco looks at the notes in front of him, checks them against the bank letter, then glances over at Althea. "Your mum tied that account to Astrid Yaxley--I mean Harkaway. And on the withdrawals, haven't we established that my arse of an uncle was in France and Belgium recently? Were those withdrawals made in the past month or so?"

Harry's skin prickles with the mention of Rodolphus Lestrange. He doesn't feel settled at all when he thinks about threat they're all living under, particularly Draco. If Lestrange has even a fraction of the power that Draco reported, they're all in immense danger. None of them want to admit that, or even talk about it, but they all know it's true. 

Parkinson raps her knuckles on the table, drawing everyone's attention. "I can confirm that Astrid Harkaway was in the Gringotts vault with Lestrange. I traced her magical signature after the break-in. So we know she's connected."

Draco leans his elbows on the desk, crinkling the corner of a bank letter. He shifts, smoothes it out. "I didn't see her with my uncle when he took me." He glances at Harry for a moment, then away. "I only saw what I think was my aunt." His hand trembles ever so slightly before he flattens it out against the corner of the desk. "Or a form of her." 

Harry flinches at that. There's another thing Harry doesn't want to think about. The team haven't reported Draco's sighting to anyone--Harry hasn't even told Gawain yet. To be honest, he doesn't know whom they can trust, and he suspects, right now at least, no one. Really, he needs to speak with Hermione; he hopes perhaps they'll have a chance at the Burrow tonight.

Parkinson continues with a brief, sympathetic look over at Draco. "Astrid's signature wasn't in the flat; I didn't find any trace of her there." She brushes a lock of her hair back behind her ear, takes a sip of her water from the bottle, leaving behind a bright red lipstick mark. "Maybe she's gone home to Daddy?" 

"Could have," Harry says thoughtfully. He looks over at Whitaker. "Do we have the files on her from MACUSA?"

"No," Whitaker says, leaning back in her chair. "I've put in two requests, but somehow the first one was lost, and the bint I spoke to in their Records department didn't exactly sound optimistic about my chance of getting them any time soon."

Jake huffs a bitter laugh, sits forward, his hands folded on the desk. He's wearing a green tie today that Harry's fairly certain he saw on Zabini a couple of days ago. "You probably won't for now. Something's going on at MACUSA that's spooked even Tom Graves." 

"Like what?" Harry asks.

"I don't know." Jake shakes his head. "I haven't seen him like this since the Towers came down. He's worried--it's something big, and he won't say what it is over international lines. My guess is Yaxley's throwing his weight around over there." He stretches in his chair, his body long and powerful. Zabini glances over at him, his eyes warm and bright as his gaze slide over Jake's torso. Jesus, Harry thinks. He rolls his eyes, and catches Draco's eye. Draco just gives him a faint smile. 

There's a thud as Parkinson drops her black protective lab bag on the desk. She opens it, pulls out a loose stack of parchments, looking up at Harry, an unhappy scowl etched across her face. "As long as we're confessing things, Daisy gave me a scroll to deliver to my father when we were in New York." 

"New York?" Harry's suddenly livid. He pulls at his collar, a flush of heat going across his skin. He tries to breathe out, but he's too goddamned annoyed. "Your sister gave you something in New York to pass on, and you didn't tell any of us?"

Parkinson shifts in her chair; even Draco's frowning at her, looking rather put out. "I told Althea."

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. "Whitaker's not your fucking SIO, Parkinson." He glares at her. "You should have reported that the moment she gave it to you. It's bloody evidence--"

"I know that." Parkinson gives him a frosty look back. "It was complicated--"

"You're a bloody Auror!" Harry doesn't care that his voice is rising. "You were trying to protect your family, weren't you?"

Parkinson looks away; Harry swears under his breath. He's been too caught up in Draco, he thinks. He's let everything under his command go to shit, and now, with Luxembourg out for blood, is not the fucking time to be this lackadaisical about the chain of evidence. 

And then Whitaker says quietly, "Leave it out, guv. The scroll was heavily enchanted. We had to get a Gringotts curse breaker to break it."

"So why the fuck does a Gringotts curse breaker know before me?" Harry's not letting himself be placated. He's not really incandescently angry, he doesn't think, just completely amazed at the depths of what his team's been hiding from him. And disappointed. Definitely disappointed that they haven't trusted him with any of this. 

Draco looks over at him, and Harry knows he can feel what Harry's feeling. Harry just glances away.

"She's my ex." Whitaker doesn't meet his gaze. She looks at her nails for a moment, then brushes her hand against her trousers. "The curse breaker."

Harry closes his eyes, counts to ten, then turns back to Parkinson. "Please," he says, his voice weary, "just tell me you found something useful."

Parkinson hands him the stack of the parchments. "I think these are account numbers. I'm not certain though."

Harry glances down at the list of numbers. He doesn't even try to figure them out, but hands them straight away to Zabini. "Check these out." If he sounds curt, well, Harry doesn't quite have it in him to be cautious about feelings at the moment.

Whilst Zabini starts cross-referencing with the other documents, Whitaker and Parkinson exchange yet another significant look, then Parkinson pulls out a small box. "This was also in the scroll." She pushes it across her desk. When Harry picks up the box, he gets a sudden wash of premonition. Inside is a half-broken seal. He walks over to Jake, setting it down in front of him for confirmation.

Jake swears loudly. "How the fuck did that get there?"

"Is that what I think it is?" Harry asks. He recognises the sign of the Hallows, something that coils deeply within his gut. He's been the Master of the Hallows, and he knows this is one in his marrow, even if it's just a bit different from the ones he knows. Still, they've seen this before. Eddie Durant had carved it in the floor of Bellatrix Lestrange's Gringotts vault. 

"Yeah," Jake says a bit roughly. He turns the box in his hands, then looks up at Harry. "It's the Robichau seal. As for what it is, I can't tell exactly, but it feels like a cemetery." He closes his eyes, hefting the box between his hands. "Definitely something that reeks of mortuary statuary." Jake opens his eyes and frowns, his handsome face crinkling. "It's familiar, but I don't know why, other than the obvious connection to my mother's kin." He looks at Parkinson. "Where'd your sister get this? Do you know what it's for?"

Parkinson shakes her head, her expression thoughtful. "All I know is that everything in the scroll came from Eustace's files, and Daisy took it when she ran." She hands over what looks like a letter to Jake that was still in the lab bag. "This is the sum total of what I have."

Harry hopes that's the end of the revelations. He scans the room, watching them all for a moment. "So all of this is starting to twine together. Is anyone else a bit uneasy about that?"

Zabini answers, not even looking up from the accounts he's cross-referencing. "Follow the money trail. It always leads to the same place eventually." He frowns, then fiips a page in his papers before muttering, "Fuck."

"What did you find?" Draco's voice breaks the silence after Zabini's muttered curse.

Zabini's still for a moment, then he looks up at Parkinson. "There's a set of subsidiaries here, linked through Jersey. It's a Muggle tax haven. They're tied to these accounts Daisy gave your father." He licks his bottom lip, then clears his throat. "I think they have a set of shell corporations there that go back to the Boston accounts."

Parkinson's face is drawn, and Whitaker stirs by her side. Parkinson looks over at Zabini. "Blaise, tell me the truth. Is my father moving money for Lestrange. Or Yaxley?" Her voice is almost a whisper, but it carries a note of panic.

Zabini sighs, sets his papers down. "Pans, I can't tell right now. It's not the main Yaxley accounts, that's all I know. We don't have enough of the picture yet to be certain of anything."

Parkinson swears, then presses her knuckle to her lips. "I'm going to fucking kill him. That cheating, fucking bastard--" Her voice catches; she turns away.

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it as Whitaker reaches across the distance between the desks, puts an arm around Parkinson's shoulder. Parkinson leans against her for a moment. Blaise trades a long look with Jake.

"It'll be all right, Pans." Draco stands, walks over to squat beside Parkinson's chair. Whitaker pulls back, gives Draco space. "Whatever we find out, it'll be okay. I promise."

Parkinson just nods, and Draco looks at Harry. 

But Harry has no idea what to say. They're Aurors. Draco knows as well as Harry does that they have to follow this through. Even if it destroys everything some of them hold dear. But Harry also knows Draco wants him to comfort Parkinson, so he clears his throat, walks over to her. 

"We'll have your back," Harry says. "I can't tell you your father won't go down for something like this." He looks around the room. "But everyone of us in here will do whatever we need to hold you up. Yeah?"

The smile Parkinson gives him is wan. "Yeah," she says, dragging a thumb across her lashes. "Thanks, guv."

Harry nods, then walks back to the white board. "Right," he says, trying to sound more cheerful than he feels. "Let's take Zabini's suggestion and follow the money."

All Harry can hope is that they find their damned way.

***

Jake swings his leather duffel bag over one shoulder as he walks into the International Portkey terminal at Heathrow. He usually takes an official Portkey from the Ministry, but Hermione hadn't been able to get him one of those. Not at the last minute. So he's here now, as much as he'd rather not be, joining the line for the departure counter. Jake rubs at his face, suddenly tired.

It hadn't taken long to clean out his hotel room and check out, really, although the front desk had been a bit starchy about his sudden departure. Still, Jake'd flashed a lazy smile at the girl behind the desk, and she'd given in, putting the remainder of his room charges on the MACUSA credit card he keeps on hand for interactions with No-Maj organisations. And now he's here, right on time for the Portkey Hermione'd sworn would be waiting for him when he arrived. He glances at the enormous departure clock at the end of the terminal, past the dozen raised daises that line the long hall. There's a sharp crack, and Jake watches a family of four disappear from the first one, their hands clenched around a large silver disc. It's nearly quarter after five here in London, which means it'll be just past noon when he arrives in New York. He sighs. Graves'll expect contact as soon as Jake arrives, which means it's going to be a fucking long day, and Jake's tired already. 

"Can I help you, sir?" The wizard at the departure counter looks up at him expectantly.

"Durant," Jake says. "I've a Portkey waiting for transit to New York."

The departure wizard nods, turns to a hovering stack of silver discs behind him. A flick of his wand, and one flies out, slapping into his hand. "Jake Durant?" the wizard asks, looking over at Jake. 

Jake nods. "The one and only." Or he hopes at least. He waits for the wizard to flip through the ledger in front of him, stopping to fill out a column beside a long list of names. 

"Fourth dais to your left," the wizard says, handing the disc to Jake. "You've ten minutes until activation. Enjoy your trip, sir."

Not fucking likely, Jake thinks, but he just smiles and steps off to the side, settling his duffel bag more solidly on his shoulder. He walks over towards the security line. This is the non-EU side, he realises. It'll take a bit longer for them to go through his bags. 

"Jake!"

The sound of his name ringing out through the terminal makes Jake stop, turn on his heel. Blaise is striding towards him, a bit out of breath, and Jake frowns at him. "I thought you were staying late at work--"

"I thought better of it." Blaise is looking at him, his eyes searching Jake's face. "I couldn't let you leave. Not alone."

Jake gives him a wry smile. "I'm used to it, really."

"Yeah, well." Blaise shifts uneasily. "Maybe I don't want you to go."

Something clenches deep in Jake's belly. "Yeah?"

Blaise shrugs, looks away, his hands in his pockets, his jacket ruched up over his wrists. "I don't like the idea of you going back to New York," he says after a moment. "I'll miss you."

Jake reaches out, touches Blaise's cheek. "I won't be gone long."

"You don't know that." Blaise looks at him then, and his face is fierce, his cheekbones sharp, his nose a thin, long line. "Graves might keep you there--"

"Weekends exist," Jake says, and he can't believe he's saying this, can't believe he's suggesting the whole long distance thing again. He'd promised himself he wouldn't, told himself that when he left this time, that'd be it. But he doesn't want to leave Blaise, doesn't want whatever this is between them to end. Not yet at least. 

Blaise gives him a quick, unhappy frown. "It's different."

Jake can't argue with that. He's done all of this before, walked away from his boyfriend at Portkey terminals. He knows how it hurts, knows the loneliness involved in a relationship like this. The jealousy. The uncertainty. What he'd had with Harry had fallen apart long before it had to, Jake knows that, and he blames the constant distance between them, the tension of being apart. He ought to look at Blaise, ought to tell him this was great fun but they should leave as friends--

"Don't you fucking dare," Blaise says, and the force of Blaise's voice, the raspy fury of it, makes Jake take a step back. Blaise's mouth tightens again; he turns away. "This wasn't just a fling for me."

"I know," Jake says softly. He studies Blaise's face, as if he can burn it into his memory. "I never thought it was."

They stand silently, looking at each other. The Portkey disc is cool and smooth in Jake's hand. 

Blaise runs a hand over his short hair. His fingernails are neatly clipped; Jake can't help but think of those fingers inside of him last night, spreading him wide, loosening him until Jake had been begging for release. There are so many things Jake wants to say, words he's not even entirely certain of himself. Part of him thinks he should, thinks he should admit to Blaise how he feels, what he wants. 

He can't. 

It's too difficult to make himself that vulnerable again. 

And so instead, Jake reaches out, lets his fingers slide around Blaise's wrist, lets himself draw Blaise closer, watches as Blaise's eyes flutter closed just as Jake's lips brush his. 

The kiss is slow at first. Careful. The barest slide of Jake's mouth over Blaise's, their lips dry and featherlight. And then Blaise exhales, soft and warm, and he opens to Jake, gives in, his fingers twisting in Jake's shirt, his body swaying forward to press against Jake's. It's warmth, it's gentleness, it's everything that Jake has ever wanted, everything he's spent years searching for, all twined up in one gentle, needy breath that ghosts across Jake's skin. 

Jake pulls Blaise close, kisses him roughly, eagerly, his tongue sweeping across Blaise's lips, pressing into Blaise's mouth. He says everything he can't with that kiss, clings to Blaise tightly as Blaise scrapes his teeth over Jake's bottom lip, sucks Jake's tongue deeper into him. 

He doesn't know how long the kiss lasts. A few seconds, a few minutes, a fucking lifetime. 

And then Blaise pulls back, his body shaking, his eyes bright, his lips soft and swollen and wet. "Come back to me, Jake Durant," he says, and there's a whisper of wings in the quiet words, a command that Jake knows he can't resist. 

Jake nods, not trusting himself to speak. He steps away, his fingers sliding unwillingly from Blaise's grip. He'll be back in London somehow. He knows he will. He needs to be, whatever the fuck Tom Graves might think. 

"See you next week." Blaise's voice is soft, almost a breath, but Jake hears him, and he looks back. 

_I need you,_ Jake wants to say, but instead he swallows, and manages to say, "Next week," as he moves backward, towards the security line. "À bientôt." The words ache, deep inside of him, in a way that they never had when he'd said them to Harry.

Blaise's smile widens. "À bientôt to you too, you beautiful arsehole."

Jake doesn't look back again until he's through the security line, until he's walking up the steps to the fourth dais. Blaise is still there, watching him, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze fixed on Jake. He raises a hand ever so slightly, nods, and it's all Jake can do not to leap off the dais, not to throw the Portkey away. He grips the disc tightly, unable to look away from Blaise as he feels the vibration of the countdown against his skin. 

And when it goes off, when he feels that sharp, almost painful tug deep inside of him that's about to launch him across the Atlantic, Jake keeps his gaze on that angular brown face. 

_Mine,_ he thinks, and then he's spinning away, carrying the image of Blaise Zabini away with him.

All fucking mine.

***

Draco smoothes the front of his shirt down. He's nervous about this. Has been since last night when Weasley showed up in Grimmauld. He clutches a bottle of wine in one hand--one of the good ones he'd nicked from the Manor cellars years ago. He's not certain it'll be appreciated by the Weasley clan, at least not in a proper way, but he's also not about to show up at a birthday celebration without some sort of gift in hand. His hair's still twisted up in a knot on the top of his head; it's so bloody hot he hadn't wanted it hanging around his face.

"You'll be fine," Harry says as they walk up the narrow path towards a slightly ramshackle house that looks as if it's held together by spit and magic, Draco thinks. The paint's peeling from the wooden walls that rise up above the stone foundation, and five chimneys sprout from the red roof, angling off in different directions. The whole structure is shabby and rundown, and Draco has to bite his tongue not to ask whether or not the house has actually been condemned by the Ministry. Harry wouldn't like that, not judging by the way his face softens when he looks up at the sagging eaves. This is home to him, Draco realises, as much as Grimmauld Place is, in a way. 

There's a hand-painted sign stuck in the grass beside the steps up to the front door. _The Burrow_ is scrawled across it in thick, black strokes only starting to fade at the edges. For a moment, Draco thinks about turning away, about running back down the track in the grass that serves as a drive. Even his small flat near Regent's Park is better than this house. It certainly doesn't contain a lifetime's worth of disdain--Draco hasn't forgotten the way Arthur Weasley had gone after his father in Flourish and Blotts that one August. 

Then again, maybe Draco should be buying Arthur Weasley a pint. 

Harry's hand settles on the small of Draco's back. "Come on," he says gently, and when Draco glances over, Harry's watching him carefully, evenly. "You can do this."

Draco's not so certain. Harry'd been thrilled when Draco'd told him this morning about the invitation. But there'd been a bit of unspoken worry in Harry's voice when he'd said he'd send Molly Weasley a note letting her know they'd be there. Draco isn't certain why, and when he'd confronted Harry about it, Harry'd just waved his concerns away. Draco's been with the bastard long enough to know that's never a good sign. 

Still, he lets Harry guide him up the steps, lets Harry knock on the faded orange door. It takes a few moments--and Harry knocking a bit louder--before the door's flung open by a tall, broad-shouldered ginger with a wide, freckled face and a can of Strongbow in one hand. 

"Harry," the ginger bellows, and he reaches for Harry, pulling him into an embrace. "Haven't seen you since Midsummer."

"Bill," Harry says, a bit muffled against the older Weasley's shirt. He coughs as Bill pounds him on the back. "All right?"

"Couldn't be better." Bill lets Harry go; Harry's face is flushed, his glasses askew. Draco reaches over to straighten them for him, and Bill Weasley turns his way. 

Draco stills as Bill's gaze slides down him, then back up again. He twists the neck of the wine bottle between his hands, his nervousness growing. 

"Malfoy," Bill says, but his voice is a bit quieter this time. "Good to have you with us."

To be honest, Draco's not certain he means that, but it seems better to take the greeting at face value than to protest otherwise. Besides, it's being the better man, Draco tells himself. He holds his hand out. "Thank you for inviting me."

Bill hesitates, his gaze dropping to Draco's wrist. When Draco glances down, he realises his sleeve has ridden up a bit, the cuff of it, sliding back just enough to reveal a bit of scar tissue and a smear of black over it. His stomach twists, but he won't pull the sleeve down, won't hide himself for anyone's comfort, much less that of a Weasley. 

And then Bill reaches out, takes Draco's hand, pumping it heartily before stepping back. Draco can hear Harry breathe out in relief. "Come on through, lads," Bill says. "Everyone else is out back in the garden. Mum's made quite the spread for her girl."

The interior of the Burrow is cluttered; furniture's everywhere, with garish crocheted afghans thrown across the back of every seat. The wallpaper's faded and has been repaired in places, and the wide wooden planks of the floor are scratched and dull, but the entire place is tidy and spotless, even the stacks of Quidditch Monthly that fill two whole baskets along one wall. 

"Want a cider?" Bill asks as they walk into the kitchen. The ceilings are low; Bill's spiky red hair brushes the beams. "Mum won't let us have anything stronger. She says we're all awful when we've had a few too many."

"She's not half-wrong," Harry says. "I'll take one, though. Draco?"

Draco shakes his head. He can't imagine drinking anything right now; the thought of it makes his stomach turn. 

Bill picks a can of cider up from the long table that runs through the middle of the kitchen and throws it to Harry. "Some bloke in the office gave Dad a case of these this summer and now he's obsessed. Ron had to show him where to find it in the Morrisons down Ottery St Catchpole."

"There's better ones," Harry says, tilting the can and popping the cap. He looks over at Draco. "Certain you don't want one?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Draco hates that his voice is so thin and wobbly. Harry gives him a worried frown, but Draco shakes his head. It's been a long day on not much sleep. He looks out the leaded glass window; there's another table outside, this one covered in a red and white cloth that's fluttering in the breeze. The glass is old and rippled in the panes; most of the garden's just a blur of green and blue and spots of bright colours that move. 

He can see the ginger hair, though. All of it. 

Draco takes a deep breath and follows Harry out of the half-opened Dutch door. Merlin, but this was an awful idea. 

There's a chorus of _Harry_ when they step into the garden, and it's practically a flurry of ginger that descends upon Harry, whose eyes widen as he's pulled into one hug after another. 

"You get used to it eventually," Granger says from beside Draco. The smile she turns on him is wry as she lifts her can of cider to her lips. She's changed from the work clothes he'd seen her in earlier today; she's wearing a pair of faded jeans and a loose, creamy crocheted top that he can see glimpses of lacy bra and brown skin beneath. "I'm glad you came though."

"I'm not certain I had much of a choice," Draco murmurs. "Your husband can be rather determined."

Granger laughs. "It's a gift of his." She watches as Harry disentangles himself from Molly Weasley. "They love him, you know. Harry."

Draco's silent for a moment, and then he nods. "I know." It's why he's here, because he could never keep Harry away from his family, however uncomfortable it might be for him. Not when even Draco can see Harry needs them. Harry's relaxing here, unfolding like a flower, the worry falling from his face, his shoulders loosening. Love washes over Draco, strong and hot, and he can feel his own nervousness fading away. He looks over at Granger. "How was your day?"

She snorts. "Probably about like yours." She twists the can between her hands and sighs. "I ought not say this, but Saul's on the warpath." 

"I'd assumed." Draco turns towards her. He's still clutching the bottle of wine like it's some sort of shield against ginger Gryffindors. "Harry said he wasn't happy after yesterday's meeting."

"That's an understatement." Granger hesitates, then she looks over at Draco. "He wants to bring Kingsley down."

A chill goes through Draco just as a cloud passes over the sun above. He lowers his voice. "Do you think he will?"

Granger looks a bit grim, then she shrugs, takes a sip of her cider. "I don't know," she says after a long moment. "Saul's a canny bastard. He might try, but Kingsley's popular."

"He's done a lot of good for the wizarding world," Draco points out, and Granger nods. 

"It'd be hard to go after him, even for Saul." Granger rubs her thumb over the tab of her cider can, frowning down at it. "So I don't think he'll manage, but it's going to make work a bit more difficult for a while." She looks over at Draco, wrinkling her nose as she does. "Perhaps it's a good thing we've been attached to Seven-Four-Alpha for the moment."

Draco doesn't disagree. Not after hearing all of this. "Keeps us out of the blast radius?"

"Something like that." Granger breaks off as Harry lopes back towards them, Ginny Weasley at his side. "Hi, love." Granger leans forward and kisses Harry on each cheek. "Just chatting up your boyfriend here."

Harry snorts, then eyes Draco. "Did it work?"

"Not particularly well," Draco says, as easily as he can with the Weaselette watching him. He can't help but remember that she's seen Harry naked too, and there's something excruciatingly awkward and infuriating about that fact. "Granger's missing some necessary equipment."

"That's what they make strap-ons for, Malfoy," Granger says, and Draco eyes her in horrified surprise. She raises an eyebrow. "What?"

Ginny Weasley laughs. "I don't think he's used to your crass side, Hermione."

Draco relaxes as Harry slides an arm around his waist, leans his chin on Draco's shoulder. "He'll learn," Harry says, and his lips brush the back of Draco's ear. "Thank you," he whispers, and Draco lets his hand settle over Harry's. He can do anything, he thinks, if Harry's by his side. 

"Oh," Draco says, suddenly remembering the bottle in his hand. He holds it out to Ginny, his fingers shaking only a bit. "Happy birthday, I suppose." He clears his throat, embarrassed. "It's from the Manor stores--" He breaks off, utterly horrified. "I mean…." Bollocks. Fucking bollocks. Draco swallows, all too aware of how foolish he must look. "You don't have to take it," he says after a moment. 

Ginny's gaze flicks towards Harry, who nods ever so slightly, then back to Draco. She reaches for the bottle, taking it from Draco's numb fingers. "I love a good Bordeaux," she says, and the smile she gives him is careful but kind. "Thank you for coming."

"Where's Nev?" Harry asks, and Draco remembers that Harry'd told him that the Weaselette was dating Neville Longbottom now.

"Dad has him in his shed," Ginny says, waving her hand towards a broken-down barn-like structure at the back end of the garden. "Dad's showing off his new generator. Don't get him started talking about it or he'll drag you back there as well. Poor Nev's been caught for a quarter-hour now." She looks over at Draco. "I'm seeing--"

"Longbottom," Draco says. "I know."

And then Weasley himself is walking towards them, the sunlight gleaming on his hair. Really, Draco hadn't realised how many different shades of ginger existed in nature, not until he'd walked out of the kitchen. "Malfoy," Weasley says with a nod, as he drapes an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Good to see you."

Draco just nods; Harry draws him closer, almost protectively. Draco'll never admit it, but he likes that about Harry, the way that Harry just seems to instinctively know when Draco needs comfort--or courage in this case. He looks around the garden. "So who all is here?" he asks, uncertain that he could place more than one Weasley if he had to. 

"Right," Weasley says. "You don't know everyone, do you?" He points to Bill. "You met Bill, yeah? I saw him come out with you two." He glances over at Draco, then goes on. "Next to him is his wife Fleur--remember her from the Triwizard Tournament?"

Really, how could Draco forget. Fleur Delacour had been jaw-droppingly beautiful a decade ago; she's still gorgeous now, nearly as tall as her husband and as lithe and willowy as Blaise. He recognises the Veela blood in the way she moves, her hair shimmering in the sunlight as she bends to catch a tiny girl who's crawling across the grass, her beribboned bum up in the air. 

"That's Dominique, their youngest," Harry says. "Victoire's over with Molly." 

Draco glances towards Molly Weasley, whose squatting beside a gangly toddler whose tulle skirt is ripped at the hem and hanging off her narrow hips, her tangled strawberry-blonde curls ruffling in the wind. There's a smudge of dirt on Victoire's cheek, more on her hands that her grandmother's trying to clean off.

"She's been at the gnomes again," Ginny says with a laugh. "Hope Mum cleans her up a bit before Fleur sees her. That's the third skirt she's had on since they got here this morning."

Another tall ginger's stoking a fire pit that some sort of plucked bird is rotating over on an iron spit. "Charlie's over there, looking after the chicken," Granger says. "He's the shy one of the family, so if he doesn't say much, it's not you."

"He's better with dragons," Weasley adds, and he takes his wife's cider from her, lifting it to his lips. 

Draco tries to take it all in. He's not certain he's met Bill or Charlie before. The others he mostly knows from school, even if he didn't pay that much attention to them back then. Still, he's certain some are missing. "Aren't there more?" he asks. "George and…" He tries to think of the name of the other one. "Bit of a prat?" he says without thinking. "Liked to be prefect?" Then again, he thinks he remembers Weasley telling him not everyone would be here, as if it mattered for some reason. 

"Percy." Weasley shakes his head. "Perce and Audrey won't be here."

"Thank fuck," Ginny says under her breath, and that piques Draco's interest. He'd always assumed the Weasley clan was all happy families. 

Harry shifts behind him. "They don't get along," he whispers into Draco's ear. 

Draco gives him an exasperated glare. "Thank you, Inspector Obvious," he murmurs in reply and Harry just laughs softly, nuzzles Draco's neck. The Weaselette's watching them, a half-amused look on her face, and then the slam of the barn door makes them all glance that way. An older man, silver mixed in with his ginger, at least on the temples, is striding across the garden, his corduroys hitched high up on his rounded waist, followed by an astonishingly good looking younger man in jeans and a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. 

"Bloody hell," Draco breathes out, his eyes widening in surprise. "That's not Longbottom?"

Granger and Ginny Weasley laugh. "He grew up so well," Granger says, and she's watching her sister-in-law's boyfriend cross the garden, the muscles beneath his shirt shifting, his thighs solid and strong. Gone is the plump face, the slightly wonky teeth. It's not that Draco hadn't realised Longbottom was different back in their seventh year; he just hadn't really cared about anything then. And now...well. 

"Maybe I went after the wrong Gryffindor," Draco says, and Harry smacks Draco's hip with an annoyed _oi_. Draco looks back at him; Harry's scowling his way. 

"You're a wanker," Harry says, and Draco kisses him, quick and hard, not caring who's watching them. When he pulls back, Harry's face is affectionate. 

"But I'm your wanker." Draco slides his fingers through Harry's. 

Ginny groans as her dad and boyfriend walk up. "Don't be soppy, the two of you. It's so bloody unbecoming."

"Language, Gin," Arthur Weasley says, as Longbottom laughs and leans in to kiss his girlfriend's cheek. Draco glances at Harry, just to see his reaction; Harry doesn't even seem to notice. But Arthur Weasley's watching him and Harry, his gaze sliding down to their entwined hands before he sighs and nods to Harry. "Good to see you again, lad." He doesn't quite look at Draco, not directly at least. "Mr Malfoy." The words have a bit of chill to them, but they're polite at least, so Draco holds his tongue. 

Arthur Weasley doesn't linger; he squeezes his daughter's shoulder then wanders off towards his wife and granddaughter. The silence around Draco is uncomfortable, until Weasley breaks it by saying, softly, "Dad'll come around. Give him some time."

"Yeah," Harry says, but Draco can hear the unhappiness in his voice. He turns towards Harry, their hips brushing. He doesn't have to say anything, Draco knows that. He just places a hand on Harry's chest, just below his sternum, and Harry exhales, then looks at Draco, his eyes warm. "It's all right."

And Draco knows it is. It'll all be fine, he thinks, as Molly Weasley calls them to table. 

Dinner is loud and raucous, the way the Gryffindor table had been at school, people talking over each other, laughter exploding from one end of the garden to the other. Fairy lights go on in the trees above; halfway through the meal, Bill Weasley sends up paper lanterns to his daughter's delight, charming them to float over the table, spilling their light across the piles of food. 

Granger nudges Draco with her shoulder. "You're doing well," she says. "The first time Ginny brought Nev to dinner, he was shaking the whole time, and he went to school with half the family." 

Longbottom leans across the table, having obviously heard his name. "And that's why Malfoy has it easier," he says. "Your husband spent half the bloody night telling tales on me--"

"And your wanking habits," Weasley says through a mouthful of potatoes, not bothering to look over at them as he spears a bit of roast. "Don't forget those."

"Fuck off, Ron," Longbottom says easily, then he looks over at Draco. "As long as this lot don't tell your secrets you're fine."

Harry drapes an arm over the back of Draco's chair. "Like I'd let that happen." His fingers brush Draco's shoulder blade. "Ginny just didn't stand up for you."

"Look," Ginny says, pointing at Harry with her fork. "I had to see if Neville had the mettle to handle my brothers." She leans her head on Longbottom's shoulder. "And he did."

"Can't be any worse than third-year Gryffindors in the greenhouses," Longbottom says, and Draco remembers he's teaching Herbology at Hogwarts now. Good for him, Draco thinks. There's no way in bloody hell Draco'd ever be caught dead teaching teenagers. _Ever._

The evening slips on, rather pleasantly, to Draco's surprise. Whilst the older Weasleys are still looking sideways at him, the younger two are relaxing around him, treating him almost as an equal. It's still awkward at moments; there are still times when they're telling school stories, and Draco realises that he knows these stories from a different angle or not at all, realises that he's still very much an outsider in this tightly knit group. But he appreciates that they're trying to make space for him in it, not for Draco's sake, but for Harry's. And that's all that matters, really.

Draco helps to clear the plates, carrying them into the small kitchen. The size of the house is strange to him; the kitchens alone in the Manor would take up more space than the entire ground floor of the Burrow. And yet, there's something warm and cosy about the house, despite its shabbiness. Draco almost thinks he likes it. 

The Weaselette sets a stack of bowls on the kitchen table, next to Draco's plates. The others have gone back out for the glasses and serving dishes; Draco can hear Harry insisting that Molly stay where she is and let the younger ones handle things, much to her protests. 

"He's mad about you, isn't he?" Ginny says, not looking over at Draco. She flicks her wand at the plates and they zip through the air, heading for the sink and the soapy sponge already waiting for them. "Harry."

"I knew who you meant." Draco picks up a tea towel and catches the wet plates as they come back from the sink, drying them off. He's silent for a moment, then he says, "Does that bother you?"

Ginny looks over at him then. Her hair's in two plaits hanging over her breasts, her freckled face solemn and thoughtful. "It might," she says slowly. "But only if I didn't think you were utterly mad about him as well."

Draco stacks the dry plates, sets them aside as Ginny sends the bowls through the sink next. He draws in a slow breath, then says, simply, "I love him."

"I know." Ginny leans against the table. Water splashes in the sink; the bowls clatter against each other before bouncing through the air towards Draco. One nearly goes sailing past; he catches it with his old Seeker's reflexes. "You know if you hurt him, I'll have to hex you."

A small smile quirks Draco's mouth. "Duly noted." He shifts the bowls to the side and looks at her. "But I've no intention of doing that."

Ginny looks away, her face sobering ever so slightly. "Sometimes," she says, her voice quiet, "we do it without meaning to. Harry's..." She trails off, then sighs. "He's more fragile than he might seem."

And then, before Draco can reply to that, Harry himself is bursting back through the Dutch door, laughing at something Weasley's saying behind him. Ginny takes the dishes from them, scolding them as they nearly drop the leftover potatoes, then binning them herself when she realises how few are left. 

Harry walks over to Draco. "All right?" he asks, and his gaze flicks back to Ginny. 

"Brilliant," Draco says. He leans over the corner of the table, kisses him. "Although there might have been some tales told on you."

"Gin," Harry protests, and she laughs. 

"He's a sodding liar, Harry," she says, and she picks up a scrap of potato and throws it Draco's way. It lands in his hair, and he sputters, plucking it out and sending it flying back across the room. 

The front door of the Burrow slams, and they all turn, a sudden nervousness twisting through the room that Draco can't explain. 

"Hullo, family," a voice calls out, and then George Weasley rounds the corner, his hair falling into his face, his shirt untucked. "Angie said I should come wish my sister a happy birthday, but I think it's more I was making her mental--" He breaks off, catching sight of Draco. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

The room's silent. Harry moves closer to Draco, puts his hand on his back. "Draco's with me, George."

It only takes a moment for the Knut to drop. "You're fucking him." George steps forward. "I'd heard the rumours--"

What rumours, Draco wants to ask, a sudden fear shuddering through him. 

"George." Weasley moves around the table, his hand up. "Mum wanted Malfoy here--"

"Are you bloody mad?" George's voice rises. Draco's certain it's carrying through the open kitchen door. "Mum? Would want Death Eater scum in her kitchen? That's fucking bollocks, Ron. What'd you do? Force her hand? If it weren't for Mum, that bastard's shit aunt would have killed Ginny--"

Harry pushes Draco behind him. "George, you need to calm down."

"Don't tell me what I need to do." George's face is pale; the freckles stand out on it like bas relief. "Not when you're putting your prick in shit like that--"

The viciousness of George's fury is like a slap to Draco. He breathes in sharply; shame and self-hatred roil through him, hot and painful and raw. 

"George!" Arthur Weasley's standing in the doorway. Draco can see Granger and Bill Weasley behind him, their faces grim. "Mr Malfoy's a guest in our home."

"You can't be serious." George points towards Draco. "He's a fucking Death Eater, Dad. We fought against his family. He ought to be fucking registered like the beast he is, not standing in Mum's kitchen with her best tea towel in his hand! Have you forgotten what he did?" George's gaze sweeps across the room, his face twisted in anger and astonishment. "He tried to kill Dumbledore. Tried to bloody kill us all, didn't he? If it hadn't been for him, the castle would never have been invaded that first time. The whole last year of the war wouldn't have happened. Bill wouldn't have been mauled by a werewolf." His voice breaks. "Fred might be alive--" He looks away, his mouth trembling. "And here you're all sat, playing happy families with shit like Draco Malfoy." 

The words slam into Draco's chest, leave him feeling shaken, his heart shattering. It's everything he's thought about himself. Everything he's said over and over. So much of it had been his fault in the war. If he'd been braver, if he'd had the courage to defy his father, his mother, to walk away… He tries to breathe, and he can't. His chest feels like a vise. He'll never be able to atone for what he's done. Draco knows that. People died because of him. People's lives were destroyed. He'd tried to fix things, but he hadn't. He never could. 

George runs a shaky hand through his hair. "Fuck you, Harry. Get the hell out of this house."

All hell breaks loose around Draco. Ginny's shouting at George; Weasley's spitting furious. Harry's reaching for Draco, and Draco can't bear the thought of Harry touching him right now. Harry's losing his family. Because of Draco. He can't let that happen. He won't. 

Draco folds the tea towel, hangs it on the back of the chair. He looks over at Arthur Weasley, who's standing in the doorway, his shoulders slumped, watching his children row. "Thank you," Draco says, as firmly as he can, and the shouting stutters to a stop. "It's been a lovely evening, but I think I should leave." He looks over at Ginny. "I would wish you a happy birthday again, but…" He gives her a half smile. "How about all the best, then?"

Ginny just nods, and she wraps her arms around herself. "Thanks." She looks pale, unhappy.

"You don't have to go," Weasley says. His voice is a bit gruff. 

"I do." Draco moves past Harry who starts to follow him. Draco turns, puts his hand on Harry's chest. "No," Draco says softly, and he can't look at Harry, can't bear to see the confusion on Harry's face. "Stay with your family."

"But--" Harry starts to say, and Draco shakes his head, cuts him off. 

"Tomorrow." Draco swallows past the tightness in his throat. "I'll see you at work tomorrow." He lowers his voice. "This is your family, Harry. I'm not going to come between you and them." He glances at George who's scowling at them. Draco can feel the waves of fury radiating from the older Weasley, sending shuddering pain through Draco's head, and Draco understands that sort of grief, that sort of rage. In his own way. Harry needs to face that, without Draco here, making it worse. "Any of them. Work things out. You can't do that with me here. You know that."

And then Draco turns on his heel and strides out of the kitchen, through the living room and out the door. The air that hits his face is still warm, and Draco's glad of it because it keeps him from giving in, from falling apart as he stumbles down the front steps, his whole body shaking, his chest so tight he can barely draw in a breath. He needs his mother, he thinks. Right now. 

"Draco!" Harry's on the steps coming after him, and Draco can't look back, can't hesitate. He breaks into a run, his boots thudding through the worn track in the grass. "Draco, _goddamn it._ "

But Draco can't stop. Won't stop. He throws himself into the air, his wand clenched tightly in his fist and the last thing he hears before he Apparates is his name, echoing through the darkness, Harry's voice uncertain, filled with pain. 

This is for Harry, Draco thinks, his heart burning in his chest, and the Burrow swirls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The next installment should be out on January 14 -- look at my tumblr for status updates!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco finds welcome as an unexpected guest, Harry is visited by someone he's not expecting, and Jake has no idea what he should expect any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second update of the year! Unfortunately, our household was unexpectedly visited by the flu, so it took a day longer than expected. Blessings on sassy-cissa for her speedy beta work and noe for keeping everything going while I hammered out the chapter. The plot's starting to get rocky, so you might want to sit down for this one.

Draco lands in the back garden of his Aunt Andromeda's house, barely missing half-full composting bin. As it is, his boot slips in something slick and foul-smelling just as a flurry of barks echoes from the house.

Crup shit, Draco thinks sourly. He drags his heel across the grass, trying to wipe it off. It doesn't work, of course, or at least not as well as it ought. 

A light goes on in the kitchen, warm and golden as it spills across the shadowed lawn, and the back door opens, just enough for two Crups to come barrelling out, barking madly as they race towards Draco, their forked tails slapping against their bums. 

"Cronus, Crius, you fucking bastards," Draco says sharply, his voice rising, "I'm not in the mood for this bollocks."  He whips his wand in a curlicue through the warm night air, and the Crups draw up short, their paws scrabbling across the cut grass as the spell lifts them up over it. Draco squats next to the Crups, glaring at each of them in turn. "Are you quite done?"

A faint whine comes from the back of Cronus' throat, and when Draco scratches behind Cronus' ear, Cronus doesn't even try to bite him. 

"Draco, love," his mother calls from the open door, "is that you?" She's silhouetted by the light; it halos around her golden hair as she pulls her grey silk dressing gown closer. Coeus sits at her feet, watching his brothers float above the lawn with what Draco's rather certain is a look of disgust on his brindled face.

"It's me," Draco says, and he ends the spell holding the Crups up. They land on the grass with a soft thud, and Draco expects them to slink away. Instead both of them wriggle around him, their rounded bodies rubbing against his legs, their tails thudding softly over his knees. Cronus even leaps up and licks Draco's face before dropping back down and padding back to the kitchen, his brother at his heels. Draco shakes his head in bemusement and stands, wiping away the wetness from his cheek with the back of his hand. He flicks his wand towards the shit on his boots, vanishing it. "I'm sorry to wake you."

Narcissa holds the door wide. "You didn't. Dromeda and I were just having tea in the sitting room before bed."  Tea indeed, Draco thinks as he slips his wand back into his pocket. More likely a bottle of wine, judging from the faint whiff of alcohol on her breath as she leans in to kiss his cheek. His mother pulls back and looks at him, a small frown forming between her brows. "You might have used the Floo. Or the front door."

To be honest, Draco's not certain how he ended up in the back garden. He'd just known he needed to be away from the Burrow, to be here with his mother. He rubs his hands over his face, letting his eyes adjust to the brighter light. The kitchen's small and cosy and spotlessly tidy, with lace curtains hanging at the window and bright pink geraniums in white enamel pots beside the sink. There's a square kitchen table in the middle of the room, all white paint and golden oak, with a white bowl in the centre filled with oranges and apples, and the hob's a gleaming robin's egg blue. It's completely different from the sprawling Manor kitchens that had been far too much for a family of three, Draco thinks. He looks over at his mother. "I needed you," he says after a moment. 

"Oh." Narcissa's frown deepens, her worry resonating in her voice. "Did something--" She breaks off, wraps the tie of her dressing gown around her fingers. "Are you arguing with Harry?"

Draco doesn't know if he is or not. He looks away. "I'm not certain," he says quietly. He thinks Harry will be angry with him for running away, but Draco hadn't known what else to do. He draws in an uneven breath. "I went to the Burrow tonight with him."

Narcissa just watches him. The Crups circle her bare feet, whining softly as they glance between Draco and his mother. "I see," Narcissa says after a moment. "Were they…" She hesitates, then says, her chin lifting, "Unkind?"

"No." Draco kneels beside Cronus, lets the Crup sniff his fingers, his wet tongue sliding across Draco's skin. "It was pleasant." He stops, thinks about the way the Weasley family had welcomed him, how they'd accepted him because of Harry. His throat aches a bit. "It wasn't like that. Until the end." He doesn't know how to tell his mother about what George Weasley had said, doesn't know how to admit to her that perhaps he wasn't wrong, perhaps there are punishments Draco deserves, ones he managed to escape when perhaps he shouldn't have. He scratches Cronus's left ear, and the Crup leans against him, his chin on Draco's knee. 

There's a noise in the hallway and then Andromeda's sweeping in, her black dressing gown trailing across the floor. It must have been her husband's, Draco thinks; the cut of it's meant for a man's frame, one burlier and taller than his aunt. "Cissy?" Andromeda asks, and then she catches sight of Draco on the floor. The door swings shut behind her. "What's happened?" Her voice is sharp, worried. "Do I need to put on the kettle?"

"If you please, Dromeda," Narcissa says before Draco can stop her. "I think perhaps tea might be needed at the moment."

Draco wants to stand, wants to protest, but he's tired and worn out, and the warmth of Cronus against his leg is comforting. His mother pulls out one of the chairs from the kitchen table and sits, watching him as his aunt casts a frown his way as she hurries over to the sink to fill the steel kettle. Cronus's fur is soft beneath Draco's fingers; the Crup huffs a sigh as Draco strokes him, his eyes closing. The other two Crups settle beside Narcissa's feet, curling around the chair legs. 

"You brought the Crups here, I see," Draco says because there's nothing else he wants to talk about at the moment. 

His mother just looks down at him, her mouth pursed. "Someone had to take care of them. It wasn't fair to leave them to the elves' care." Her face softens as she nudges Crius with her toe. He rolls over with a soft snuffle, letting her rub her foot against his belly. "They miss your father." Her expression tightens, tenses, and Draco can see the pain twist across her face. 

"We all do," Draco says softly, and his mother just nods. Draco falls silent, his fingers lightly dragging through Cronus' white and brown spotted fur. He can hear his aunt behind him at the hob, hear the soft whoosh of the gas as she lights the burner with a flick of her wand. He feels young and raw sat here on the floor like this, particularly when his mother reaches over and smoothes a loose lock of his hair back from his face. 

"You're upset," Narcissa says, and Draco can't look up at her. He doesn't know what to say. His throat feels thick and sore, his hand shakes as he slides it down the length of Cronus' back. The Crup's forked tail thumps against his wrist. 

There's a soft rattle of pottery from behind him; when Draco glances up, his aunt is in the cupboards, pulling down the teapot and mugs. She looks over at him. "You might as well tell her," Andromeda says. "She'll be worrying all night if you don't."

Draco toys with one of Cronus' ears. The Crup snorts against his thigh, drooling ever so slightly as he rolls into Draco. "The Weasleys were fine," he says after a moment. "It wasn't awful, even if it was terribly ginger." 

His aunt laughs, soft and warm, even as his mother wrinkles her nose. "Really, Draco," Narcissa says, her voice quietly admonishing. 

"Well, it was," Draco says. "Ginger everywhere." And then he thinks of Ginny Weasley, standing in that other kitchen, more cluttered but still tidy, and the way she smiled at him. As if he were part of her family. 

Perhaps he'd been, in a way. At least for a moment or two.

His mother's just watching him, her hands folded in her lap. Draco sighs, then says, "George Weasley came at the end." At his aunt's sharp intake of breath, Draco looks her way. Her face is pale. "You know," Draco says, understanding. "You know what he thinks of us--"

"George lost his twin," Andromeda says, her voice quiet in the silence of the kitchen. "He's still not in his right mind about it--"

"I understand his grief." Draco glances up at her. "But I couldn't stay. Not with what he was saying--" Draco's voice cracks; he looks away, his shoulders hunching. He can still hear George's words ringing in his ears. _He's a fucking Death Eater…tried to kill Dumbledore...tried to kill us all…_ Draco shakes his head, as if he can dislodge the memory of it, but he can't, can he? It's all true. Everything that George said. He looks up at his mother. "I did it all. He wasn't wrong." 

And then his mother's reaching for him, pulling him close, and he's resting his head on her knee as his body trembles with the pain of it all. She strokes his hair, her fingers smoothing over the knot at the top of his head. "It's all right, my love," she murmurs, but he can hear the hesitation in her voice. 

"Maybe," Draco says quietly against his mother's dressing gown, "maybe he's right. Maybe I ought to be registered--"

"That's rubbish," Andromeda says sharply, and he looks up as she sweeps around the table, holding a hand out to him. He takes it in surprise. "Get off the ruddy floor, Draco. Look at both of you, giving in to this." She clucks. "And you, Cissy, indulging him." She pulls Draco to his feet; Cronus whines. "Enough of that, you," Andromeda says to the Crup. "Acting as if no one pets you when Teddy spends most of his waking hours lately playing with you in the garden." Her mouth's a thin line; her dark hair's pulled back in a simple plait that hangs down her back, making her look young, even with the creases in the corners of her eyes. She eyes Draco. "Sit," she says, pointing towards one of the chairs at the table, and Draco does, a bit taken aback by the tight fury in his aunt's voice. 

"Dromeda," Narcissa starts to say, and Andromeda holds her hand up, cutting her sister off. 

The kitchen's silent for a moment, save for the scratch of Crup claws on the wooden floor as Cronus pads around the table to flop down on Draco's boots with a huff. Draco reaches down and scratches behind his ears again; it makes Draco feel better, almost as if his father might walk in the room, which is bloody ridiculous given how much Lucius and Andromeda disliked one another. 

And then Andromeda sighs and sits at one of the other chairs. "I know it's hard for you both right now," she says, her voice soft. "You've just lost Lucius, and I remember all too well that first year without Ted, without Dora. Here I was, my whole family taken away from me--and raising an infant to boot. Forty-seven years old and doing night feedings again." She shakes her head. "And grieving on top of that. I sat up most nights in a makeshift nursery that used to be my daughter's bedroom, rocking Teddy and sobbing my heart out." She reaches across the table, touches Narcissa's hand. "I've heard you at night, Cissy. When you think I've gone to bed." 

Draco watches as his mother looks away, pulls her hand back, her fingers closing around the lapels of her dressing gown, tugging them closer. "I haven't felt I had the right to grieve," Narcissa says, her voice barely a whisper. "Not with what you lost because of my husband." She looks over at her sister, her face troubled. "Because of me."

"Don't be a twit." Andromeda gives her sister a careful look. "I'm not excusing any of you, mind. Lucius was a damned fool, and you even more of one for going along with his idiocy." Narcissa looks away, and Draco wants to snarl at his aunt for what she's just said, for the spasm of unhappiness that crosses his mother's face. He can't though; he knows she's right. They had been foolish, all of them, dangerously so.  Draco touches his forearm, feels the raised scars beneath the cotton of his shirt, the dull ache when he presses his fingers into the Mark. 

His aunt's watching him. "You as well," she says. "You made a few stupid choices yourself, lad."

"I know." Draco swallows past the tightness in his throat. "I've been trying to remedy that."

Andromeda's look is gentle. "Of course you have, and I'm glad of that. But there'll still be people like George who're angry at all of this, who'll want to take that anger out on you. Possibly your whole life. It's not right, perhaps, or fair, but when you've lost someone...well." She glances away, and Draco can feel the edges of his aunt's grief ripple towards him, still sharp after all these years. Andromeda draws in a raw breath. "You'll understand now, I suspect."

He does. "It never goes away, does it?" Draco asks. "That hole in your life."

Andromeda doesn't say anything for a moment, and then she exhales. "How could it?" She folds the thick tie of her dressing gown between her fingers. "I still feel them sometimes," she says. "I'll walk into a room, and I'll almost swear that I can smell Ted's cigarettes, that I can hear his voice in another part of the house. I look at Teddy and I see Dora in him, an expression he makes or something he says, and it's her." She looks between Draco and his mother. "I wish I could tell you it went away, or that you even become used to it. The pain's lessened over the years, but it's still there, beneath the surface, and--" She breaks off, presses her lips together. 

Draco lets his mind slide across the edges of his aunt's. Her grief's swirling between them, but Draco can sense other emotions there too. Sadness, loneliness… He inhales sharply. "You're angry," he says, and his aunt doesn't look at him. 

The kettle goes off, and Andromeda leaps out of her chair, going to pull it from the hob. None of them say anything; Draco watches whilst his aunt pours the steaming water into the teapot, setting the top firmly on. Her back's to them; she hesitates, her hands settling on the counter, her shoulders hunched. 

"Dromy," Narcissa says, but she stops when Draco shakes his head. His aunt needs this moment, Draco's certain, more so than his mother needs her reassurances. Narcissa sits back, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and Draco can feel his mother's fear, her sadness, her guilt. 

This is what they both have to face, Draco thinks. The way their actions in the war hurt others. Perhaps they've spent too many years avoiding that realisation. 

"You didn't kill my husband," Andromeda says finally, her voice hoarse, uneven. "Or my daughter. I know that, Cissy. And I know you went through your own trauma during the war." She turns then, and her face is crumpled, worn. Her gaze drifts down to Draco's arm, to his palm pressed against the puckered scar hidden by his sleeve. "I've seen the aftermath. But sometimes I think of what I've lost compared to what you've lost…" She breaks off, presses her knuckles to her mouth. Draco can see the shift of her shoulders, the rise and fall of her chest as she draws in a breath, then exhales it. "Sometimes I'm angry at how bloody _foolish_ you all were. At how you all followed Bella, believed in that bastard--" The word disappears in a sob, and Andromeda turns away again. 

Draco doesn't know what to say. Cronus rolls onto his back, his paws batting at Draco's trousers. 

And then his mother's standing, and she moves across the kitchen silently until she's beside her sister. "I'm sorry," Narcissa says, and Draco knows she means it; he can feel it from where he's sat. She reaches out, pulls Andromeda against her, leaning her head against her sister's. "I'm so bloody sorry, Dromy," she whispers, and Andromeda clutches her, buries her face against Narcissa's shoulder. Narcissa strokes her hair, lets her sister cling to her. "We were wrong," she says softly. 

They were, Draco thinks. But perhaps it'll take more than an apology to absolve them of what they've done. It hadn't just been his father's choice, he knows, as much as he'd like to push it all off on Lucius. HIs mother had made her decision to stand by his father, as had he. His fingers trace the scar tissue on his arm. He may have felt pressured to take the Mark, but he'd still given in. Still accepted it. Still tried to do what the Dark Lord asked of him. 

He's not the same boy he'd been. He's changed. He's made different choices now, tried to be a different person. A better person. But that doesn't change the marks left on other people by his actions, does it? Draco looks down at his arm, at the faint bit of black smudge that shows when he pushes his cuff up. Maybe not everyone can forgive him his mistakes. He doesn't blame them. Not when he has a hard time forgiving himself them. 

Andromeda steps back, disentangles herself from her sister's arms. She wipes at her eyes with her thumb. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment. "I don't know where that came from--"

"You can be angry," Narcissa says, looking at her sister. She hesitates, then says, "I believed things back then that I don't think are true any longer. But it doesn't mean…" She stops, and she squares her shoulders. "If it's easier for you and Teddy, I could go back to the Manor--"

"No!" Andromeda's shaking her head, so quickly that her plait slaps one shoulder, then the other. She reaches for Narcissa's hand. "I just got you back, Cissy. Please." She breathes out. "I'm not going to say it doesn't hurt sometimes, but I want you here." Her gaze slides over to Draco. "You're both welcome. Please know that."

Draco nods. His mother looks a bit more uncertain; he wishes she wouldn't, wishes she could feel his aunt's sincerity. And then he wonders if it's normal for a Legilimens to sense emotion like this, to know what others are feeling even without pressing into their thoughts. He wishes Burke were around so he could ask her--or even Durant, for that matter. But they're both gone now, and Draco feels as if he's adrift, lost on his own. 

He doesn't particularly like it. 

Andromeda sends the cups levitating over to the table as she picks up the teapot. "We need that cuppa now," she says, with an unhappy laugh. "Draco, the milk's in the fridge, if you wouldn't mind? Cissy, the sugar?"

Narcissa follows her to the table, a sugar bowl in her hand; the chairs scrape across the floor as they sit. Draco retrieves the milk carton from the refrigerator, Cronus padding along after him as he returns to the table. He sets the milk in front of his aunt. She pours the milk in first, then the tea, pushing a mug towards Draco, then his mother. Draco takes the sugar bowl, plucking three cubes from it with the small silver tongs, then dropping them into his steaming tea. He needs it comfortingly strong and sweet and milky tonight, the way he'd taken it as a child. 

They're quiet for a moment, the three of them sat around the kitchen table. Draco cups his mug of tea between his hands and breathes in the sweetly fragranced steam. He feels discombobulated, a bit gutted if he's honest. George Weasley's words are still spinning about in his brain, colliding with his own grief, his own guilt. It's not productive, Draco knows, but he can't seem to stop them. He's tired, worn out, empty. 

"I left Harry at the Burrow," Draco says, and he doesn't know why. His mother and aunt look up at him. Draco turns the mug, lifts it to his mouth, takes a sip. It's hot and sweet. He feels something inside of him settle a bit, and he wants to laugh. How very British of him, he thinks, calmed by a cup of tea. Still, it relaxes him enough for him to say, "I thought he needed to work things out with the Weasleys." He looks down at the milky tea, pale and beige in the white pottery mug. "It seemed important, if we're to be together."

Andromeda nods. "I think that's wise. Molly and Arthur have been surrogate parents for him since he was eleven." She picks up her own tea and sighs. "It'll come out in the wash, you know. All of this." She looks at his arm again. "Sometimes you just have to give people time."

Draco sets his tea down. "It just…" He chews on his lip for a moment. "The Registry," he says finally. "I never thought to hear a Weasley support it." He doesn't know why, really. Perhaps he ought to have, but Harry'd been so violently opposed to it from the beginning that Draco had just assumed all his friends would be. It's the kind of bollocks he expects old cows like Griselda Marchbanks and ignorant twats like Arthur Maxton to be in favour of. Not intelligent, successful businessmen like George Weasley. 

"It doesn't surprise me," Andromeda says after a moment. "Not with George, at least. The others might raise my eyebrows--with the exception of Percy, I suppose; he always has been a bit of a twit--but George...well." She sighs and takes a sip of her tea before putting her mug down. "George has been angry for years about Fred's death. Molly tells me he's never really accepted it, and we all were a bit taken aback when he and Angelina started seeing one another. I never quite bought all their bollocks about finding solace in each other, to be honest." Andromeda frowns down into her tea. "Seemed a bit more like it was them both trying to find Fred again. And now they're expecting."

Narcissa's eyebrow goes up. "Are you suggesting the girl was…" She trails off, obviously a bit embarrassed. 

"Dating Fred at the time of his death." Andromeda rubs her thumb over the rim of her mug. "The wedding was a bit awkward for all sides, I think. And the couple's happiness a bit too forced." She shakes her head. "The war left marks on all of us in one way or another."

That's an understatement, Draco thinks.

Andromeda picks up her mug again. "Still, his endorsement of the registry seems a bit of an overreaction." She frowns, her brows drawing together. "It's not like that family, really."

"Support's growing for it," Draco says quietly, and his mother looks over at him in surprise. "Shacklebolt's doing his best to block it, but that doesn't mean he'll be successful."

"And what will that mean for us?" Narcissa leans forward, her elbows on the table, her face tight and pinched. 

Draco doesn't entirely know. "It depends on what version of the Act is passed," he says after a moment. He's heard rumours around the Department of Mysteries, none of which he entirely believes, but they all have a kernel of truth in them, he's certain. "It might be as simple as being registered and nothing else." He hopes that's all it will be, but he suspects otherwise. At his mother's even look, he sighs. "Hawkworth wants to put limitations on our Gringotts accounts."

Narcissa's mouth tightens. "Controlling our access to our funds, I assume."

"Tracking purchases," Draco says with a nod. "Setting caps at how much we can spend per day. It's ridiculous, of course. Gringotts isn't the only bank available to us." That much has been bloody obvious thanks to Nicholas, Draco thinks, and that's something he doesn't want to consider at the moment. On several different fronts. 

Andromeda's silent for a long moment, and then she runs a hand over her face. "We won't let that happen," she says. "Not those of us who see the absurdity of it all--"

"I don't know that there'll be a choice." Draco's heart aches. He's grateful for his aunt's support, amazed that she'll stand up for them even after all they've put her through. Andromeda Tonks is a damned good woman, he thinks, but Draco doesn't think that will make a difference. Not in the end. Griselda Marchbanks and Ernest Hawkworth want vengeance of their own, and Draco's bloody certain that they'll have it. 

His aunt reaches over, lays her hand over his. "I didn't lose a husband and a daughter," she says quietly, "to let this happen to the two of you. Whilst I realise it's coming from a place of hurt and anger, we already have systems in place to protect us from idiots like Bella's bloody husband--"

"I've seen him," Draco says before he can stop himself, and the looks both his mother and his aunt turn on him are horrified. He shifts in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. "Uncle Roddy."

"Why?" His mother's voice trembles on the word before becoming steely. "What does he want with you?"

Draco curses himself for saying anything. It's not something he wanted his mother to know, and he'll be damned if he'll tell her he'd been kidnapped by his uncle. That'll only worry her more. Still, he can't not answer. Not with his mother looking at him that way, her gaze quick and sharp. He clears his throat, turns his cooling mug of tea between his hands. "He seemed to think I might want to join him."

"Join him?" Narcissa sounds incredulous. "He just killed your father--has he gone completely mad?"  
"I don't really think Roddy was the most stable individual to begin with, Cissy," Andromeda says, her voice dry. She looks over at Draco, and Draco's not certain she doesn't see past his wavering bravado. "How did he react when you told him no?"

And that's most certainly not something that Draco wants to tell either of them. He's not going to admit his uncle tried to kill him, not going to admit that he was saved by a Dementor that he's fairly certain is their sister, however impossible that might be. But they're both looking at him, and Draco can see the similarities in their faces, the way their noses turn up at the end, the sharp angles of their jaws, the uneven hairlines on their foreheads, one so blonde, the other so dark. They're the same features he's seen on himself in the mirror, and sometimes Draco thinks he forgets how much of a Black he is. His Malfoyness has been bred into him since birth, but these women--these glorious, stubborn, opinionated women--are part of him as well, and he loves them. 

Which is precisely why he says, as calmly as he can and with the faintest of shrugs, "He wasn't happy, of course, but he let me be." He tries to hide the shudder that goes through him, but he thinks his aunt sees it anyway. Her eyes narrow at him, but she doesn't say anything. 

"That doesn't sound like Rodolphus," his mother says, but they're interrupted by the trill of the Floo bell, startling them all. 

Andromeda pushes her chair back. "I'll go see who it is," she says as the bell rings again. She frowns. "Before they wake Teddy up." She sweeps out of the kitchen, leaving Draco alone with his mother. 

Narcissa's studying him in a way Draco doesn't quite care for. "You're lying to me," she says after a moment. "Leaving something out."

And Draco can't help but wonder if his mother's a natural Legilimens herself, the way her sister was, the way her son is. Burke says it runs in families, Draco remembers, and he wonders where Burke is, what sort of trouble she's stupidly found herself in by allying with Barachiel Dee of all bloody people. Everything's falling apart around them, he thinks, and he's certain he's only seeing part of it, not the entire picture, and that frightens him more than he's willing to admit. 

"Draco," Narcissa says sharply, and he looks at her, a bit blankly. "What aren't you telling me?"

But he's shaking his head already. Draco can't tell her, can't worry her more than he already has. "It's nothing," he says, and his chair legs scrape across the floor as he stands. "I should check on Aunt Andromeda." He doesn't know why; he's just uneasy at the moment. Every instinct he has is on high alert right now--and has been for days, if he's honest. Weeks, perhaps, even. Draco knows he's not over his father's death, as much as he wants to push it all down, to bottle it all up in work and Harry. He can still feel the grief writhing beneath the surface; it keeps him awake at night, sets his whole body on edge. He knows he's been tense with Harry lately, knows that he's been unpredictable, unhappy, uncertain. Sometimes he thinks Harry deserves a bloody medal for putting up with him, but Draco won't tell him that. He finds it difficult to talk about this with Harry, as if he's not allowed to have his grief because of the ways in which his father had cocked up over the years. He knows Harry would tell him he's a complete twat, just as his aunt had his mother, but Draco thinks Harry might be wrong on this one, that maybe Draco doesn't have the right to mourn Lucius Malfoy after all his father has done to destroy the lives of others. 

George Weasley's, for one. 

Draco leaves his mother in the kitchen and makes his way down the hallway towards the sitting room. He stops just before the half-closed door when he hears his aunt say, "You need to give him more time, Harry. It's barely been three weeks since Lucius died."

 _Twenty-seven days,_ Draco thinks. _Nearly a whole lunar cycle._ And that hurts in a way Draco hadn't considered. His father's been gone a month almost, and that pain still feels so very fresh. 

"I'm trying," Harry says, and his voice is soft, muffled even. "I know he's grieving--"

"They both are." Andromeda sighs. "George didn't make it easier tonight, I understand."

Harry's quiet for a long moment. Draco knows he should walk away, knows he shouldn't be listening to this. But the only other place to do is the kitchen, and Draco can't be sat there, alone with his mother. She'll pull his secrets from him, and Draco can't bear to put her through any more worry. And then Harry says, "I told George he could fuck off if he spoke to Draco like that again. I…" He huffs a soft breath that Draco isn't certain is a laugh or a sigh or something else. "I may have caused a problem with the Weasleys."

"Perhaps you should have done that before Draco left," Andromeda says, but her voice is gentle. Careful, even. 

"I know." Harry sounds tired. "I just didn't expect it to happen. Not like that. George wasn't supposed to be there. I thought I'd have time to see him alone, to explain the way things are between me and Draco."

Draco shifts, catches sight of his aunt kneeling in front of the hearth, Harry's face in the flames. They flicker around his cheeks, twist through his messy hair. He looks so tired; Draco wants to go to him, to Floo through to Grimmauld Place and land in Harry's arms. But he can't. Not yet, and he doesn't understand why, but there's something stopping him, something holding him back. 

Perhaps it's just his pride.

"You can't always fix things, Harry," Andromeda says. She's quiet for a moment, then she says, "You can't keep him safe from people's anger. He made choices--"

"He's worked to change himself," Harry snaps, and Andromeda nods. 

"I know." She squats back on her haunches. "And I'm proud of him for that. But you can't control other people's grief either. You can't force George to shut it off. Not even for Draco."

Harry's silent again. His head turns in the flames, as if he's looking off towards something in the distance. "I love him," he says finally. "I can't bear the thought of other people I love hurting him as well."

"You have to let them," Andromeda says. "And you have to give him the space to work through that. My nephew's stronger than you think, Harry. You don't always have to protect him." She stops, then says, "He gave you a gift tonight, you realise. Letting you have the space you need to mend things with your family. You should use it."

All Harry does is nod. 

Andromeda reaches into the green flames, brushes her knuckles against Harry's cheek. "We'll look after him tonight," she says. "Go make your peace, Harry."

And then Harry's gone, and Andromeda's still kneeling in front of the empty Floo, her shoulders bent. Draco steps back, slumps against the wall. He doesn't know what to think, what to do. There's a part of him that's furious with his aunt for letting Harry walk away, for forcing him to, really. And yet, Draco knows Harry needs to undo whatever's been broken between him and the clan of gingers. Draco closes his eyes for a moment, remembers the way Arthur Weasley had looked at him, that flash of dislike, of uncertainty that Draco was there, in his home, with his family. Draco knows what Harry stands to lose if they make their relationship public. If people who love Harry can be this angry with him for being with Draco, what will the ones do who've idealised him, who've put him up on that pedestal of Chosen One, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Eternal Hero? Draco is Harry's weakness, his clay feet, the flaw certain to bring the Boy Who Lived down. 

He's not certain he can live with that truth, if he's honest. 

Andromeda walks through the doorway, two empty wine glasses in her hand, an open bottle of pinot noir in other. She stops when she sees him. "You know that was Harry then," she says, meeting Draco's gaze. 

"You should have let him through." Draco can't keep his irritation from his voice. 

His aunt's eyebrow quirks up. "And nothing stopped you from coming in and saying you wanted him here."

Draco looks away, his chest tight, his stomach churning. He knows he could have, knows that one word from him and Harry would have said hell with all and come to him. And Draco wants that, he does. But…

"Not tonight," Andromeda says, and when Draco looks up at her with wide eyes, she gives him a small smile. "Bella wasn't the only neuromancer in the family. She might have been the best, possibly even as good as you are, but it's not an unknown Black family talent."

And then from behind him, Draco hears his mother say, "How do you think I survived the Dark Lord?" He turns to look at her as she steps from the kitchen into the hallway. She still has her tea cupped in her hands. "None of us had Bella's abilities, but perhaps that's for the best, all things considered."

"She was never right after she came back from Tirésias," Andromeda says quietly. "Bella was always a bit temperamental, a bit…" She hesitates. 

"Unpredictable," Narcissa says, and Andromeda nods. 

"But something happened when she was in Paris," Andromeda says, "and when she came back she was broken."

A roil of uncertainty goes through Draco, a fear that the same will happen with him, that somehow his mind won't be able to take the training, that it will ruin him, destroy him, leave him as bloody raving as his aunt had been. He pushes those thoughts aside, tries not to let them slide free. "What broke her?" he asks, and his mother and aunt share a long, uneasy look. 

"They wouldn't tell us," Narcissa says after a moment. "Bella never spoke of it either, but it wasn't long after that when the Dark Lord came into her life." 

Andromeda snorts at that. "I never understood why Rodolphus stood for that." At Draco's frown, she adds, "Bella was sleeping with him. Merlin only knows why."  And that answers questions that Draco's had since he was a teenager, doesn't it? He'd always known his aunt was in love with the Dark Lord; that hadn't been difficult to determine. It's a bit much to know that she fucked him, though. Draco's not certain what to do with that information.

"Everyone was sleeping with each other," Narcissa says, and that's also not something Draco wants to know or to think about. She looks over at him, realisation crossing her face. "Not your father and I."

"Cissy was far too smitten," Andromeda says, but there's a faint smile curving her mouth. And that's a relief, really. Draco doesn't want to consider his parents doing anything of that sort. Not with any of the other Death Eaters and most certainly not with the Dark Lord. 

Narcissa reaches out and takes the bottle of wine from her sister, along with one of the glasses that still has a trace of deep red wine in its bowl. She pours more into the glass and takes a long swig of it. Draco's a bit impressed really; he's only ever seen his mother drink delicately. This is as far from her ladylike sips as possible. She lowers the glass and says, more bluntly than Draco's heard before, "I am far too sober for that sort of conversation, Dromeda." She shudders. "Although I'm grateful for Bella's influence on His Lordship." Her gaze drifts over to Draco; the hollowed-out look in her eyes reminds him far too much of the war. "In her own mad way, she kept us all alive at the end."

She still is, Draco thinks, and it unsettles him that his aunt, mad and vicious though she might be, is watching over him, in whatever form she's trapped in now. 

He looks at his aunt and says, "I think we need another glass." 

Draco'd like nothing better at the moment, than to get smashingly pissed. 

His mother's bloody well right about that.

***

Jake's sat at a No-Maj bar on the Upper East Side, one he's never been to before. It's not terribly crowded for a Friday night, which means it'll probably close down soon like all the other shit bars that pop up now and then throughout Manhattan, unable to draw a proper clientele. And it should close, Jake thinks, frowning down at his plate of half-eaten spring rolls. The kitchen's complete crap. Still, the bartender has a heavy pouring hand, which Jake appreciates tonight. He lifts his old fashioned; the ice is just starting to melt into the bourbon.

He wonders where Blaise is right now. It's just gone nine in New York, so it's two in the morning in London. He hopes Blaise is sprawled across that wide bed of his, preferably alone and missing Jake. But Jake's not certain they have that sort of relationship yet, or if they ever will. For all he knows Blaise is off in some other man's bed--or woman's for that matter. Blaise has always laughed about being an equal-opportunity fuck, and that sends a flare of jealousy burning through Jake.

Still, he can't help but think of the look on Blaise's face earlier this afternoon, standing in the Portkey terminal at Heathrow, watching Jake stride up to the departure dais. He hadn't wanted Jake to go, and that fact gives Jake hope. Of what, he's not damn certain, but it's there, deep inside of him, a tiny tendril that thinks maybe he and Blaise could be something a little more than a good fuck whenever Jake's in London. 

And Christ but Jake's body responds to that thought, to the memory of Blaise pressing into him the night before, the weight of him holding Jake still against the mattress. Jake wants that again, wants to feel Blaise against him, wants the hot slide of Blaise's dick over Jake's skin, the intoxicating breathlessness of Blaise's kisses. 

"Goddamn," Jake mutters, and he shifts on his bar stool, his jeans suddenly a bit too tight. He ought to say fuck it to waiting here for Tom Graves, ought to just go the hell home, back to his empty Boerum Hill apartment and jerk his prick raw. He lifts up his glass, downs a swallow of the watery bourbon and bitters with a grimace. Frankly he doesn't know why he lets Graves wind him up like this. It's fucking ridiculous. Jake's been in New York for eight hours now, cooling his fucking heels because his boss doesn't want to talk about whatever the fuck this is inside the MACUSA offices, and when Jake'd called from the Chambers Street Portkey Terminal, Graves had told him not to come to the Woolworth Building, told him that he was still officially on loan to the British Ministry and he wanted it to stay that way for the time being. 

Fuck if Jake knows what's going on. He's starting to think Graves has lost his goddamn mind, to be honest. He shifts on his stool, reaches for his wallet. He tosses two twenties towards the bartender. "Keep the change," he says, and he turns to slide off the stool.

Right into the solid form of Tom Graves. 

"Going somewhere?" Graves asks, his eyebrows rising, and Jake stills when he sees a tall auburn-haired woman behind Graves, her bright green eyes sweeping across Jake's face, a bit worriedly. 

"Mel?" Jake asks, and he's a bit flabbergasted to see Graves' wife with him. Particularly given that Mel is President Quahog's chief of staff. He looks back at Graves. "What's going on? Tom?"

Graves slides onto the stool to Jake's right; Mel takes the one on Jake's left. "Hi, Durant," she says, and her voice is husky and warm. Jake's always liked Melusine Rowle-Graves. She's a ballbuster who's taken shit from others--mostly men--in the MACUSA hierarchy, but frankly, Jake thinks Quahog's needed someone like her to keep him in line. Still, he's cautious, given what they're starting to find out about Aldric Yaxley's meddling in MACUSA politics. And his Unspeakable instincts kick in the moment Graves casts a privacy charm, then turns to look at Jake. 

This can't be good, Jake thinks. Especially not when Mel sets a MACUSA file folder on the bar in front of her that has a Notice-Me-Not spell practically sparking across the thick brown paper. 

"What we're about to tell you," Graves says quietly, "doesn't go back to the Woolworth Building." He gives Jake an even look. "Not even to Martine Boucher or Alma Espinoza. Do I make myself clear?"

It's hard for Jake, but he nods. "All right." 

Graves' shoulders relax; he looks over at his wife. Mel takes a deep breath, then pushes the file folder over to Jake. "How much do you know about Aldric Yaxley's involvement in Quahog's campaign?" 

Jake shrugs. "Not much." He pauses, his fingertips resting on the file folder. "Why?"

Mel bites her lip, her gaze flicking over to her husband, who nods at her. She tucks her hair behind one ear; the blunt-cut edges brush her shoulders. The black suit she's wearing is expensive, perfectly tailored to her long, lean frame, and her perfume is spicy, peppery. No soft, demure florals for Mel. She frowns, then says, "Samuel wouldn't have been elected without Aldric Yaxley. All of us on the campaign knew that. And we supported it, to be honest." A faint line forms between her thick, neatly groomed eyebrows. "Maybe one day we'll have rules the way the No-Majs do about how much money a candidate can take from a single donor, but for now…" She shrugs. "Yaxley funded us. He also got his friends up in Boston to give us money, and we looked the other way." Her mouth tightens. "It's not something I'm proud of, but I believed in Samuel's platform. I still do." 

"But?" Jake asks softly, and Mel looks away. She catches the eye of the bartender. 

"A white wine," she says to him. "House is fine." She glances back at Jake. "But it's time to pay the piper his due, it seems." She rubs at a scratch on the bartop; her scarlet fingernail stands out against the polished black wood. "Yaxley wants Tom out."

Jake turns to Graves. "When'd you find this out?"

Graves shrugs. "Mel heard it from Quahog yesterday." His jaw is tight, his mouth a thin, angry line. "Yaxley knows I sent you over to the Brits. He's figured out I want to take him down."

"So he wants to oust you first," Jake says, and Graves sighs, folds his arms across the edge of the bar. 

"I wouldn't give a shit about that so much if he wasn't determined to take Mel out with me," Graves says, and the look on his face is grim. 

Mel gives Jake a tight smile. "You're now looking at the former chief of staff," she says, with a wave of her hand and a dip of her head. She takes the glass of wine the bartender hands her. "Fucking Yaxley." Her eyes narrow. "I want that bastard taken down, Durant. I don't know what he's up to, but the amount of time he's spent in Samuel's office the past few weeks is terrifying." She looks at him over the rim of her wine glass. "He's running the fucking country, to be honest. Sam's stopped making decisions by himself. Everything goes past Yaxley now, and our fucking President's not listening to a goddamn one of his advisors any longer." 

A chill goes through Jake. "Do you think it's an Imperius?"

Graves shakes his head. "Mel checked him for that."

"Pretty sure that's what sealed my fate," Mel says bitterly. She takes a sip of her wine. "Fuck if I know how the asshole found out though. Tom taught me the charm you guys use. Sam shouldn't have even known." 

Jake wants to swear. It's the worst-case scenario, the one he and Blaise had worried about before. Aldric Yaxley shouldn't have this much power. It surprises him, though, that it's coming through MACUSA. Jake would have thought Yaxley'd have aimed for the British Ministry, all things considered. He frowns. "So what is it you want me to do about this?"

"Anything you can," Graves says. "I don't know how long I'll have before Quahog replaces me--"

"Sam had a short list of names on his desk yesterday," Mel says. "I saw it before he fired me." Her face softens. "I think he wanted me to warn you. He owed me that, at least, after all I've done for him." 

Jake doesn't think that's the case, but he can't shatter Mel's illusions. She needs to believe the man she's worked with for years wouldn't betray her or her husband like this, but Jake's certain he would. If they trace the money back, he wonders, would they find Samuel Quahog in Yaxley's pocket for longer than his presidential run? He'd been a congressman for ten years, after all, representing the New England states, and Jake'd be willing to bet that if he took money from Yaxley for his presidential candidacy, he'd done it before. 

And that terrifies the shit out of Jake, to be honest. Whatever Aldric Yaxley's planning, he's running a long con for it, taking his time, setting his pawns in place. Everything Seven-Four-Alpha knows is only fragments of the larger picture, wavery, shadowed glimpses of what Yaxley's end game might be. 

Mel taps her finger against the file folder in front of him. "I've given you everything I could get on Yaxley's contributions to the campaign. I don't know if it'll be any help, but I wanted someone to have it outside of the office. It's supposedly a matter of public record, but I noticed a week or so ago that certain amounts were disappearing from the ledgers, as if they'd never been there." She turns her wine glass between her fingers, looking unsettled. "Someone's covering their tracks."

Probably because of the British investigation, Jake thinks. He opens the file folder. It's filled with copies of ledger sheets, Yaxley's name highlighted, along with monetary amounts and bank names. Eastern Bank's on there, over and over again, and Jake looks up at Graves. "This matches with some of the financials we've traced in London," he says quietly. "This account--" He taps the Eastern Bank number. "I'm pretty sure it's the same as one registered to Yaxley's grandson." 

"Harkaway?" Graves frowns. "He's still missing."

That doesn't surprise Jake either. "Never showed back up in Boston?" 

Graves shakes his head. "I've had surveillance on his last known residence through the Boston bureau. He hasn't returned. Hasn't shown up at his grandaddy's either." Graves scowls, and Jake wants to shake his head. No wonder Yaxley's after Tom, if he's managed to figure out the Director of Magical Security's had him watched. 

"Can I see those files?" Jake asks. There might be something there to follow up with, he thinks. 

"Already ahead of you." Graves pulls a thumb drive from his pocket and drops it onto the file folder. "Everything I've got from Boston is on there. Files, surveillance charm footage. Everything." He looks evenly at Jake, and Jake knows what he's being given. This is classified, he's certain of that, and probably higher than his Unspeakable pay grade. Graves could get fired for taking it out of the office, much less handing it over to Jake. "Take this bastard down, Jake," Graves says, his voice soft but furious. "I'm not about to give my government up to those fucking Death Eaters. Not here, not now, not ever."

Jake's silent for a moment, then he says, "How long do you think you have still at the office?"

Graves looks over at his wife. "I won't last past Monday," he says finally. "Then it'll be Mike Wilkinson or Jeffrey Fontaine, most likely." His nostrils flare. "Both idiots, to be honest, but they'll kowtow to whatever Quahog asks of them."

"You mean Yaxley," his wife says glumly over the rim of her wineglass. "The fucker."

"What'll the two of you do?" Jake can't help but be worried about them both. There's part of him that's never entirely trusted Tom Graves and still doesn't, if he's honest with himself. But this is different. Jake can tell the man's upset, that he's uncertain about what's happening in their government, that he's furious with how his wife's been treated. There's a swirl of emotion around Tom Graves right now that only ratchets up Jake's own anxiety about the situation. 

Graves gives him a thin smile that isn't really a smile. "Hide out in the house for now," he says. "Keep the kids calm until it's time for us to take Philip back up to Ilvermorny next week. The girls'll be fine; they're too young to notice anything, really, but Phil…" He trails off. 

"Philip's going to worry," Mel says, and her voice catches a bit. She looks over at Jake, lays a hand on his arm. "We'll land on our feet though, Durant. Don't worry about that. Just find a way to take down Aldric Yaxley before he does something we'll all regret."

Jake doesn't know what they expect him to do, really. He looks over at Graves. "I'll have to bring in Seven-Four-Alpha."

"You'll have to go rogue," Graves says. "Whoever takes the job after they're rid of me isn't going to want you tramping around, investigating their boss." And Jake knows then that he's probably going to lose his job over this. He meets Graves' gaze, and he knows that Tom knows it as well. "I'm sorry," Graves says, his voice quiet. "But you're the only one I trust with this."

"All right," Jake says after a moment. "Fuck it. I haven't got a choice, do I?"

Graves gives him a faint smile. "There's always a choice, Durant."

Jake's not so certain that's true. 

He closes the file folder, slides the USB drive in his pocket, and with that, he's in. It'll go spectacularly badly, he's certain. But Jake's never been that great at protecting his own ass. Not when he knows there's a right thing to do. 

"I'll do what I can," he says, and he slides off the chair. "Just tell me you'll pick up my phone calls if I need you to."

"You've got my cell," Graves says. He puts his hand on Jake's arm, stopping him. "There's just one more thing you ought to know." 

That sounds far too ominous for Jake's liking. He looks between Tom and Mel. "What?" Jake asks, hesitantly. 

Mel's watching him, turned on her stool, her shiny red-soled heel hooked over one of the rungs. She looks tired, her face drawn, the skin beneath her makeup pale and almost grey. "Samuel went upstate this week," she says. "By himself. It wasn't an official visit, but he used an alias that he sometimes uses when he wants to be unrecognised."

Jake stills, his whole body tensing. "Upstate where?" he asks, but he knows the answer before Mel even says it. 

"Oudepoort." Mel's wine glass dangles from her fingers. She runs a thumb along its side. "I don't know why. All I do know is that he signed in to speak to one Jasper Durant." She looks up at him. "What the hell does the President of MACUSA want with your daddy, Jake?"

Jake just stands there for a long moment, his mind whirling. "Hell if I know," he says finally, his fingers clenched tight around the file folder in his hand. 

"But I think you do," Mel says quietly, and she doesn't look away. 

"I'll do what you want me to," Jake says, taking a step towards Mel. She doesn't flinch. "But you leave my fucking father out of this." He looks at Graves too. "Both of you."

Graves lifts his chin. "I'm not so certain we'll be able to."

And that's exactly what Jake's afraid of. He turns on his heel, starts to walk away. 

"Jake," Graves calls, and Jake looks back over his shoulder. Graves is watching him, his face shuttered. "You and your British friends?" 

"What about them?" Jake keeps his voice even, despite the roil of his stomach at the warning in Graves' tone. 

Graves studies him, then looks away. "I wouldn't trust Saul Croaker too far if I were any of you." His gaze flicks back towards Jake. "Just a friendly bit of advice."

"Duly noted," Jake says. He doesn't point out that none of them do anyway. Instead he raises the file folder in his hand. "I'll do what I can."

He strides through the half-empty bar, his shoulders tight, tense. 

Standing on the sidewalk, Jake has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he's going to have face down his asshole of a father tomorrow. He swears, causing an older man to look at him in surprise as he passes by. Jake barely notices, despite the street being bright and loud around him. All he can think of his how very much he _doesn't_ want to see Jasper fucking Durant right now. Eddie'd be goddamn thrilled about this chance to force a reconciliation, Jake's certain of that.

He walks down towards the subway steps, lost in his thoughts.

At least this is familiar, his family being knee-deep in shit, isn't it?

***

Harry's sat at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, a stack of file jackets from his office stacked in front of him. He'd slept like hell to be honest, like he always does now when Draco's not beside him, and he'd finally given up at nearly half-six, Saturday morning or not. There'll be no sleeping in today. Still, for the past half-hour, he's been staring at the same page of the write-up of the case connections Whitaker had done yesterday. Harry scrubs his hands over his face, pushing the rims of his glasses up with his fingers before letting them drop back over the bridge of his nose. His hair's a rat's nest; his eyes are still a bit crusty with sleep, or the lack of it, he supposes. He hasn't even bothered to change out of the thin jersey joggers and stretched out Joy Division t-shirt that he'd worn to bed. It's too warm in the kitchen; Harry's shirt is damp in spots, and he's certain he reeks of sweat. At least it's a little cooler in here than upstairs, though.

Kreacher sets another cup of coffee in front of him, the mug thudding against the wooden table, milky coffee splashing out, as Kreacher glares at him. "Master Draco is to be sleeping here," Kreacher croaks with a scowl. "The house is not being happy."

None of them is being happy, Harry thinks, but he also resents being the one blamed for it all. "Perhaps Master Draco wanted some time away from you," he snaps, and Kreacher's eyes narrow. His small mouth becomes even smaller when pursed. 

A bony finger presses into Harry's chest. "You is being thick." Kreacher glares up at Harry. "You is being the Master. You is bringing him back."

As if Harry could just throw Draco over his shoulder and drag home like a bloody Neanderthal. "It doesn't work like that," Harry says as Kreacher stomps back to his room behind the pantry. "I can't just force him back."

Kreacher's only response is a snort and a scratch of his arse before he ducks beneath the low lintel of the door to his quarters. Harry rolls his eyes and reaches for his coffee, grimacing as he takes a sip. It's too strong, and Harry is half-sure the milk has gone off. With a sigh he pushes himself out of his chair and walks over to the sink to dump the cup out. Really, Harry thinks, a bit sullenly, if Draco only knew how Harry suffered when he took off like this, maybe he'd be a bit more considerate about flouncing away. 

And then Harry feels guilty. It hadn't been Draco's fault, after all, and he'd been trying to give Harry space to make things right with the Weasleys. With George, really, and Harry'd done his best, but it'd just ended up in a bigger row, hadn't it? Harry'd left the Burrow angry and feeling awful about ruining Gin's birthday. But George'd been so bloody stubborn--not to mention furious with Harry for daring to put his prick in a Death Eater, former or not, and that had infuriated Harry, that implication that somehow he was now tainted, that he'd fallen from grace because he'd had the nerve to fall in love with a Malfoy. 

It still makes Harry want to punch something. 

He sets the empty cup in the sink and wipes his hands with the tea towel. The worst of it had been the way Molly and Arthur had grown agitated whilst George and Harry were shouting at each other, how Arthur had snapped at Molly that this was her fault, he'd told her not to ask the Malfoy boy over, that it'd come to no good and only make problems for the family, and he'd been right, hadn't he?

And that had been when Harry had stopped, when he'd given up and just left the Burrow, Ron and Hermione telling him he shouldn't go. But he'd had to. In a way, Arthur was right. If his relationship with Draco was going to be this contentious for his family, well. Harry wouldn't bring it around them then. But they could bloody well fuck off if they thought Harry was going to walk away from Draco. He won't, no matter how much Draco thinks he can keep Harry at bay during times like these. Harry doesn't need to be protected, for fuck's sake. 

There's a clang from the Floo upstairs, and Harry takes off, running up the steps to the ground floor. He wants to see Draco, to hold him, to tell him everything will be all right. 

But when he arrives in the library, it's Ron who's dusting the soot off his jeans. He looks up at Harry. "You need to clean your Floo, mate." 

"I've been meaning to all summer." Harry doesn't bother to hide his disappointment. "What are you doing here?"

Ron's eyebrows go up; he gives Harry a wry smile. "Hello to you too, Harry. Sorry if I wanted to check in on you after last night."

A twist of shame goes through Harry. He sighs, his shoulders slumping. "I'm a shit."

"You're tired," Ron says, and he drapes his arm around Harry's shoulders.  "Also, it's bloody boiling in here--are your cooling charms off?"

"No," Harry says, a bit glum. "The house is being a bloody lovesick cow; any time I cast a cooling charm, it warms everything back up again." He glares at the ceiling. "It's not my fucking fault he's not back yet." 

There's a rattling in the eaves that sounds viciously unhappy, and a bit of plaster dust falls from the edges of the ceiling mouldings. 

Ron brushes the dust off the front of his t-shirt, then reaches over and bats it off Harry's fringe. "Your house is odd, mate."

"Tell me about it." Harry shrugs Ron's arm off his shoulders, then starts towards the kitchen, Ron trailing after him. "But really, you didn't come over at--" He checks the clock hanging in the hallway. "Half-seven on a Saturday morning to see if I was fine."

"I did," Ron protests. His trainers slap against the steps behind Harry; the temperature drops at least few degrees as they go into the kitchen. "Hermione was worried about you." 

Harry suspects she was. She'd tried to pull him aside last night, tried to tell him everything would be fine, that Draco would settle into the family soon enough, once everyone was used to it. Harry knows she's right, but he hates that Draco'd seen that side of the Weasleys, hates that things weren't easy for him. Especially right now. Andromeda'd been right when he firecalled last night. He forgets sometimes that it hasn't even been a month since Draco lost his father, that he's still grieving him in his own way. Draco's been quiet about it lately, and perhaps Harry's been lulled into thinking perhaps it's not that bad any longer because Harry wants it to be all right, because Harry doesn't know how someone could grieve a man like Lucius Malfoy. But he wasn't Harry's dad, was he, and perhaps Harry ought to remember that. 

And now Harry feels a right shit, doesn't he? 

He pushes the kitchen door open. "Neither of you need to worry, you know."

"Maybe not." Ron walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a jug of apple juice. He sets it on the counter and reaches for a glass from one of the cupboards over the counter. "But I know George upset you." He pours the juice into the glass and takes a sip, turning to look at Harry over the rim. 

"It's fine," Harry says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He's uncomfortable with this, even though he supposes he ought to have expected it. He hesitates for a moment, then sighs, sitting down at the chair he'd been at a few minutes ago. "I don't want it to come between us."

Ron shrugs, finishes the rest of the juice, then pours another. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "It won't." He walks to the table, takes the chair beside Harry, sets his juice down. "George doesn't speak for the whole family. You should have realised that after last night." He sounds a bit hurt, and Harry looks away, back down at the stack of file folders spread in front of him. 

They're silent for a moment, the two of them, and then Harry sighs, leans back in his chair. "I'm sorry," he says, and he glances over at Ron. I know he doesn't. It's just, with Draco…" Harry runs his hands through his hair. A scrap of plaster falls out onto the table. Harry flicks it away. 

"You're overprotective of him." Ron leans forward, his elbows on one of Harry's file jackets. "I get it, Harry. I really do. And I love George, but he can be a prat sometimes. The night before Hermione and I tied the knot, he asked me if I really wanted to shackle myself to such a bossy cow--don't tell her that, by the way. She doesn't know." He scratches his stubbled jaw. "I decked the bastard, and he apologised. He thought it'd be funny, but it wasn't."

"I don't think he's trying to make a joke about Draco, though," Harry says. He looks up at Ron. "Hermione told me he and Percy were supporting the Death Eater Registry." His stomach sours. "After I heard it from Griselda Marchbanks first."

Ron has the decency to flush. "I didn't want to say. Not until I'd talked one of them out of it at least--"

"You didn't think I had a right to know?" Harry scowls at him. "Even your dad's not thrilled I brought Draco by."

"Well, yeah," Ron says, "but that's more him being a Malfoy than a Death Eater. You know how Dad felt about Lucius--"

"Lucius Malfoy's bloody dead," Harry says, his voice rising, and Ron falls silent. "He was murdered a month ago. And I'm dating Draco now, and I love him. You and Gin were the only ones who didn't treat him like he was some sort of pariah--"

"Bill hasn't an issue with him," Ron says hotly, "and neither has Charlie. They don't _know_ him, Harry, but they want to get to know him because of you, you giant sodding twit." He frowns. "And Mum knows he means something to you. I told her he did, and her first response was for you to bring him to Ginny's birthday. _Ginny_ , Harry. Mum's been trying to get the both of you back together since you first split up. She never even liked it when you brought Jake by the Burrow, and here she is welcoming Draco bloody Malfoy with open arms. So fuck you, Harry. Get your head out of your arse and stop blaming all of us for George and Percy being wankers. For fuck's sake, even Dad thinks the Registry's a shit idea. You ought to have heard him give George what-for after you left. But you don't care, do you? You're too invested in this idea that we're all against you and Malfoy, which is utter bollocks, you stinking pillock. None of us care who you're arse over tit for. We just want you to be bloody happy." He's breathing hard by the end, and Harry's just left staring at Ron and the pink splotches on his freckled cheeks that look ridiculous against his red-gold hair. 

The chair creaks when Harry shifts in it. "Oh," he says, the anger seeping out of him, and Ron's face softens. 

"You have to stop shutting everyone out, mate." Ron reaches over and ruffles Harry's hair, the way he had when they were kids. "Us. Malfoy. Anyone." He's quiet for a moment, then he says, "Have you seen Freddie recently?"

Harry looks away. "She's on holiday," he says, but he's not entirely certain that's true. Paris tends to shut down for most of August, but he still has Freddie's Floo address. He could firecall to check. He just hasn't had the courage to. Not since he's been back. 

Ron sighs. "You ought to. You're starting to get that mad look about you that makes me think you're going to do something reckless and stupid, and whilst that was brilliant when we were kids, I've got a wife and business to think about now, so I can't be following you about the bloody Forest of Dean or whatever the hell we'll end up doing this time."

And that makes Harry smile, even if only slightly. "I promise I won't drag us out to the Forest of Dean, how's that?"

"I'd rather you promise you'd ring up Freddie," Ron says, "but I reckon you'll drag your feet at that one." Harry doesn't want to admit he's right. Ron just watches him, then he shakes his head. He takes a sip of his juice, then grimaces. "You're a stubborn bastard, Harry, but you're my best mate, so…" He sighs again. "Where's Malfoy, by the way?" He studies Harry's face. "You haven't said, but given the house is being a twat--it just warmed up my apple juice, ta ever so--I'm guessing he didn't come home last night."  
"He has his own flat," Harry says, perhaps a bit defensively, and Ron's eyebrow goes up a notch. Harry frowns and looks away. "He went to Andromeda's. He wanted to see his mum, she said."

Ron leans back in his chair. "Oh." He chews on his lip. "That's…" He rubs his thumb on the edge of the table. "So George really upset him."

"You hadn't figured that out yet?" Harry can't help the sharpness of his tone. He folds his arms on the table, tries not to lose his temper again. "He's still fragile, Ron. It hasn't been a month since he buried his dad." Harry only feels a bit hypocritical as he says this; he's grimly pleased when Ron's face falls.

"Right." Ron's fingers tap a syncopated rhythm against the file jackets. "I suppose that didn't help." 

Harry can't even look over at him. He just shrugs and lets his gaze drift over the Lestrange write-up again. He's barely reading it, barely registering the words. All Harry can think about is Draco and how worried he is about him. 

And then Ron's pulling the file jacket out from beneath Harry's splayed hands, shutting it and setting it aside. Harry looks up at him. "What are you doing?" Harry demands, and Ron just frowns at him. 

"Look, mate," Ron says. "Let me give you some advice as a married man. You love Malfoy, yeah?" At Harry's nod, Ron throws his hands up. "Then what the fuck are you doing here in your bloody kitchen, when he needs you over there?"  
Harry blinks at him. "Andromeda said he needed space--"

"Fuck that bollocks." Ron leans forward. "My guess is that Malfoy's wondering why you haven't come by, why you're not there with him right now. So get off your whingy arse and go, Harry. When have you ever listened to anyone telling you someone needed some bloody space?" Ron sounds indignant. "You're a fucking Gryffindor. Go find that man of yours and shag some fucking sense into him, why don't you?"

"I don't think--"

Ron scoffs. "Stop thinking. I wouldn't leave Hermione moping about, no matter how much someone told me I ought to. Just…" And here Ron looks a bit uncomfortable. "I don't know what your sort do."

Harry gives him an even look. "My sort?" 

"Don't start." Ron rubs his ear. "I'm just saying, if it were me, I'd find Hermione and tell her I'd been a twat, then carry her to bed for the rest of the bloody weekend. I just don't want to assume you'd do the same, and be all hetero-whatever it is."

That makes Harry smile a little. "Heteronormative," he says. Hermione's been scolding Ron again, he can tell, and Harry loves them both for it. 

"Yeah," Ron says. "So…" He looks over at Harry. "Don't leave him alone," he says, his voice quiet. "Even if he thinks he wants it, he doesn't. I've seen the way Malfoy looks at you, heard him say your name. If that bastard isn't madly in love with your sorry arse, I'll…" He pauses, his brow furrowing as he thinks. "I'll bet against the Cannons next match." 

And Harry knows he's serious. Something warm and soft opens up inside of him. "You're an idiot," he says, but fondly. 

Ron grins at him. "But a wise idiot," he points out, and Harry can't argue with that. "Merlin, man, even your house thinks you're a tosser for not bringing him home." Ron fans himself with a file jacket. "So go on with you. Make that stupidly grand gesture you're dying to make."

Why not? Harry asks himself. The worst that could happen is Draco tells him to go get stuffed, and Harry doesn't think that's all that likely, to be honest. He pushes his chair back, the legs scraping across the stone floor so loudly it makes even him wince. "All right," he says, and he points a finger at Ron. "But you'd best be gone by the time I get back."

"You think I'm daft?" Ron dips a finger in the open jar of marmalade on the table, then licks it clean. "Just get out of here, mate. Go find your man."

And, Harry thinks, as he takes the steps to the Floo two by two, that's exactly what he plans to do.

***

Draco's in Andromeda's kitchen looking for coffee when he hears the Floo whoosh to life. It's still early yet, and neither his mother nor his aunt are awake yet, and he hasn't seen his cousin stirring at all. Then again, Draco can remember being eight and lazy during summer hols, so perhaps that's not terribly odd.

He walks out into the hallway, stopping just before he slams into Harry.  "Oh," Draco says, and he's suddenly aware of being in his trousers and nothing else, not to mention being a slight bit hungover from finishing off the extra bottle of wine his aunt had brought out when they'd polished off the first one. 

"Hey," Harry says. He looks a fright, Draco thinks, in a black sweat-stained t-shirt and joggers that hang off his hips. He's barefoot, his hair needs brushing terribly, and his glasses are smudged. Draco's almost certain there's a bit of marmalade on his shirt as well. But he's Harry, and he's here, and Draco's never wanted to see anyone more in his life. 

Not that he'll let Harry know that, of course. "What do you want?" Draco says, and he knows he sounds ungracious. Harry's face falters for a moment, and Draco wants to reach out, to catch Harry's hand before he turns and walks away. 

And then Harry lifts his chin, and he walks up to Draco, nearly pressing him into the wall. "You," Harry says, and Draco's bloody body betrays him, the bastard, making him a bit weak in the knees. He hates it when Harry does things like this, when he comes in and sweeps Draco off his fucking feet. 

"I don't need you rescuing me, Potter," Draco snaps, even as his cock tells him to shut the fuck up.

"Didn't say I was." Harry leans down, his lips barely brushing against Draco's. The soft huff of his breath sends gooseflesh prickling across Draco's bare skin. "I just missed you, that's all."

Draco inhales as Harry's hands settle on his hips. "Did you." It's not a question, and Harry smiles over at him. 

"Terribly." Harry's thumbs dip beneath the waistband of Draco's trousers. "And so did the house."

That's oddly pleasing, Draco thinks--or as best he can with Harry's body pressing against his, the heat of Harry's skin making its way through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. 

And his joggers aren't much protection either, Draco realises, as Harry shifts against him. He can feel the swell of Harry's prick against his hip. Circe, but Draco wants him. Right here, right now, in the middle of his aunt's house. "Harry," he says, against Harry's jaw, and Harry hasn't shaved yet. He hasn't showered either, judging by the musky scent of him, and Draco thinks he should find that off-putting, but he doesn't. He wants Harry, wants Harry's smell on his own skin, wants Harry beneath him, begging for him again. 

"Please," Harry says against Draco's throat. "I'm sorry for not coming earlier--"

"Just," Draco says a bit breathlessly as Harry nips along his skin. "Just shut up, you giant prat." He doesn't care about Harry's apologies or his excuses, really. Not right now when Harry's touch is setting his skin on fire. He pushes Harry's chest; Harry staggers back a few steps, only barely catching his balance. "You can't just come over here and _do_ that when I can't even think--"  
Harry catches Draco's hand. "I'm an arsehole," he says, and the look he gives Draco is heated but sincere. Draco can feel it, and he doesn't pull away. 

"Did you come to terms with the gingers?" Draco asks, and part of him doesn't want to hear the answer.

"I told George he could fuck off if he spoke to you like that again," Harry says, and as much as Draco would rather not admit it, he's pleased with that. Harry lets his knuckles graze Draco's cheek. "The others aren't happy with him either." He pauses, then says, "But I think they're all right with us. You and me." Harry clears his throat. "A Malfoy and a Potter." His lips curve up in a wide smile. "That's good, yeah?"

Draco nods, lets Harry drag his thumb along the inside of his wrist. And then he's curling his fingers through Harry's and pulling him back down the hallway, towards the spare bedroom that's beside the loo. The others are still upstairs, thank Circe, and Draco wants Harry too much to wait to go through the Floo. Besides, it'd be rude of him to leave without thanking his aunt for her hospitality, he tells himself, as he closes the bedroom door behind them and reaches for his wand on the side table, casting a muffling charm when he does so. 

He turns back to Harry. 

Harry's looking around the small room, taking in the narrow bed and the rumpled pale blue floral bedspread that Draco had thrown aside when he'd rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago. It's a spare room, that's for certain, with very little decoration, and the walls are a simple soft cream. There's a painting of a lavender field hung over the tall chest of drawers, and a tiny blue dressing chair in the corner that looks as if it came from a child's room. 

"I slept in here once," Harry says. "The mattress was terribly hard."

Draco can't deny that. He'd tossed and turned most of the night, even with a cushioning charm. Still, he glances at it, then bites his lip as he moves closer to Harry. This is madness, he thinks, and terrible manners to boot, but he wants Harry, needs Harry in a way he can't explain. He just knows that his body is craving Harry's touch, that it has been since last night when he'd heard Harry firecall. Draco draws in a deep breath. Fuck it all. The rest of the house is asleep still. They'll never know.

"Let's put it to better use than sleeping," Draco says, a rush of excitement going through him. He feels wicked, he thinks, and he tosses his head, his hair sliding back from his face in a tumble of silver-gilt as  Draco eyes Harry up and down, raking his gaze across Harry's muscular body and feeling his own body respond. He leans in, his breath ghosting against Harry's mouth as he murmurs, "Or is it the only thing in the room that's hard?"

Draco could swear Harry bloody _growls_ in response. And then Harry's mouth is on Draco's throat in a heartbeat, his strong hands coming up to settle on Draco's hips, his teeth nipping the tender skin above Draco's collar bone. After a moment of letting Harry deliciously maul his neck, Draco plants a firm hand on Harry's chest, pushing him back just a bit. Harry looks for all the world like a Crup held away from a favourite bone. The surprise on his face would be almost comical if Draco were in a mood to laugh.

"We're doing this my way, or you're Flooing back to Grimmauld," Draco says quietly. He doesn't know exactly what prompts him to flaunt his control, but he knows he needs this, needs to know that Harry will yield to his wishes.

Harry eyes Draco with concern, his hands dropping to his sides. "We don't have to, you know. If you'd rather…" He trails off, his uncertainty obvious.

Draco shakes his head. "Don't even finish that sentence." He gives Harry a small smile, reaches out to curl his fingers around Harry's. "I want this, I just want it my way. All right?"

As if in comprehension, and still a little tentative, Harry nods. "I can do that." He hesitates, then draws in an uneven breath. His thumb traces tiny circles on the back of Draco's hand.  "What would you like me to do?" 

Really, Draco thinks he could live from the careful, loving, almost deferential look on Harry's face. He knows how eager Harry is for him; Draco can practically smell Harry's cock weeping in those godawful joggers, can see the way it presses at the thin jersey, stretching it, dampening it in one spot, but still, Harry waits for Draco to articulate what he wants.

Merlin but Draco does love this bloody man.

"Strip for me," Draco says, and he pulls back, lets his fingers slide from the warmth of Harry's. "I rather like that"

Harry breathes in sharply. He reaches for the back of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. Draco watches as Harry's flat stomach's revealed, then the brown pebbled nubs of his nipples, the soft, dark fuzz of hair across his solid chest. Harry shakes his head as the shirt pops off, his hair nearly standing on end. 

"That's a start," Draco says, and his voice is thick, a bit raw. He lets his fingers drift across his own chest, his thumb scraping over one nipple, and Harry watches him, licks his bottom lip as his hands push at the waist of his joggers, sliding them down over the sharp cuts of his hipbones.

Fuck, Draco thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's all he can do not to move closer, not to press his hands against the firm muscles of Harry's belly, to feel the soft warmth of Harry's skin.

And then Harry's joggers are sliding down those powerful thighs of his, and his prick's bobbing free. Draco loves seeing Harry like this, so open and comfortable with his body in a way that Draco's not entirely certain he can ever be. 

"Better?" Harry asks, and he kicks his joggers off entirely, sending them sliding half under the bed. 

Oh, yes, Draco thinks, and he lets his gaze slide down Harry's body, linger at the swell of Harry's cock. 

Harry's watching him, a small smile curving his mouth. "Next?" he asks, and Draco has no bloody clue what he wants Harry to do. He frowns, biting his lip. He can have anything, he realises. Harry won't deny him a thing, and that makes Draco feel warm and powerful, makes a deep confidence swell up inside of him. This is what Harry gives him, an acceptance that lets Draco feel as if he could own the bloody world.

"I want you to lie on the bed," Draco decides, after a few moments' of consideration. He looks up at Harry, meets his gaze.  "I want you to lie on the bed," he says again, "and I want to ride you." His body feels warm, although Harry's not touching him right now, his pulse in his throat and his breathing quickened.

Harry frowns, and Draco's worried for a moment. He will bloody well push Harry back in the Floo if Harry doesn't understand how important this is. He'll leave the bastard wanking himself alone at home if he has to. All his worries dissipate, however, when Harry says, "We don't have lube. I mean, the good kind."

"I can say the spells." Draco feels a curious bravado at that, a special sort of confidence that goes to his head. His lubrication charm is a bit better than Harry's if he's honest. Not that he'll ever point that out to his boyfriend, but still. He's proud of it.

"All right." Harry's mouth twitches into a smile again, and he crawls onto the bed, giving Draco a brilliant view of his perfect arse. Fuck, Draco thinks as he reaches for his wand again. Yeah, Harry's hair is a complete mess and he's a bit whiffy, but Draco wants to shag him into the mattress. Draco runs his wand over Harry's skin on impulse, and Harry closes his eyes, tipping his chin up. "Whatever you want," Harry murmurs, and the power he's granting Draco turns Draco on more than anything.

Draco steps back, fumbles with the buttons on his trousers. They slide off in a whisper of lightweight wool, pooling around Draco's ankles. Draco steps out of them, pushes his y-fronts down as quickly as he can, wincing ever so slightly the moment his prick pops free. He throws them aside, then slides onto the bed with Harry, crawling over to straddle Harry's hips. "Ready?" he asks, looking down at Harry beneath him.

Harry swallows, and Draco can feel the slick head of Harry's prick against the curve of his arse. "Yeah," Harry says rawly. "I reckon I might be."

"Right then." Draco raises his wand. The cleaning spell makes Harry jolt, but he settles himself immediately, relaxing against the pillows. The other spells leave Draco shifting and adjusting in their wake, his arse feeling oddly empty and wide. Harry's eyes are open, watching him. Draco feels as if he's on display. 

"God, you're so hot when you do magic," Harry says softly, his cheeks a little pink. "With that posh diction of yours. It's like listening Celestina Warbeck order breakfast--just so sexy, even with the little spells. And you're so precise."

"Flattery will get you precisely nowhere, Potter." Draco gives a haughty sniff, but he's fooling no one, not even himself. He's chuffed, and he's not really bothering to hide it. The great Harry Potter just complimented him on his magic. "I'm sure it works on those floozies in New York, but I know you."

Harry licks his lips. His hands settle on Draco's hip, soft and heavy and warm. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone else."

A shudder goes through Draco, and he shuts his eyes for a moment. It's only with his eyes closed that he has the courage to whisper, "Me too."

He's forgotten that he's angry with Harry, or, rather, that annoyance has gone straight to his prick. Draco takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, looking down at Harry as he murmurs the lube charm, watching Harry's great ruddy prick bobbing in front of him as he does, and is pleased to feel the product is more viscous than usual. Pansy's taught him a trick or two lately on the cast. Not that he'll admit that to Harry, of course.

Draco looks down into Harry's lust-darkened eyes. He exhales, lets his finger trail down the firm warmth of Harry's chest. "You're going to be good, aren't you?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or I'll stop."

"I promise," Harry says, and his answering look of compliance, submission even, makes Draco's heart swell in his chest. 

"Hands on the bed, then," Draco says, and he slowly pulls Harry's fingers from his hips, letting one hand at a time fall against the mattress. He shakes his head when Harry complains. "No."

And Harry breathes out, twists his fingers in the rumpled sheets. "All right."

Draco reaches behind himself to slick lube on Harry's prick, then he fingers himself open over Harry, Harry's hands staying dutifully on the blue-flowered coverlet that Draco will have to steal afterwards to have the Manor elves sanitise. He doesn't care, not even if it's his aunt's favourite. He needs this too much right now.

Harry's breathing heavily beneath him, mouth open, watching Draco work one, then two fingers into himself. The lube isn't really great, not like one that'd been properly brewed, not conjured, but it will do. Draco manages the edge of a third finger, stretching his rim with some effort. His prick is bobbing over Harry's stomach, and Draco leans back, his wrist brushing Harry's prick behind him. 

"Fuck," Harry groans, his cock rubbing slightly against Draco's arse, then he stills, his whole body taut and tense. "I can't--" He bites his lip. "I need you," he says, and his voice is reedy and thin. "Please."

"Good," Draco says, but his own breath is caught in his chest. He pets his fingers across his arsehole, making sure he's ready, then reaches back further, grasping Harry's prick. He lifts himself up slightly on his knees, thanking all of the conditioning and stretching he's done in the past few months that he can hold this position. 

It also helps that the mattress is so fucking bloody hard. 

Draco feels Harry's cock brush his arsehole. He positions himself closer to it, then says, a bit roughly, "Harry, you can put your hands on my hips to keep me steady. But nothing more. All right?"

Harry's teeth are sunk deep into his lip, and there's a glazed look on his face. His hands come up to rest on the bony ridges of Draco's hips, warm and solid. They feel perfect, Draco thinks, and he smiles, his eyes locked on Harry's, as he slowly lowers himself onto Harry's prick. 

There's no air in the room, no sound, just the harsh, shallow rasps of their breathing and the furious beat of Draco's heart thudding in his ears. He adjusts twice, coming up, and then shifting his hips. It's a bit more work with conjured lube, a bit more of a painful burn, and Draco moves slowly--very, very slowly--letting his body accommodate Harry's girth in small stabs, rising up, then lowering again, pressing himself further along the length of Harry's cock. Somehow he manages to keep his eyes fixed on Harry's whilst he's doing this, and Harry holds Draco's gaze, a reverent expression on his soft, stunned face. Draco's arse twinges, but he works through it, curving his back, contracting his inner muscles, then letting them go, pushing back against it when he needs to. When the tip of Harry's prick lodges deep inside of him and he feels the cheeks of his arse rest on the top of Harry's thighs, Draco wants to crow with satisfaction. Instead, he holds himself here, letting his body open, keeping his balance, breathing in and out with the relaxation exercises Durant'd taught him for Legilimency that work so well in other pursuits as well.

Harry's prick is throbbing inside of Draco, rock hard and so deliciously invasive. Draco rocks experimentally back and forth, his own cock hardening at the motion. Harry gasps, and Draco runs out of patience. 

"Fuck, Harry," Draco says, leaning forward. " _Move._ "

As soon as the word leaves his lips, Harry's hands claw at Draco's hips, holding him whilst he bounces against the unforgiving surface of the bed, rocking into Draco and pulling him down to meet his careful thrusts. Draco balances on his knees, palming his prick experimentally as the steady roll of Harry's hips picks up in frequency. Draco feels stretched, as if on a tightrope, in a perfect moment of arousal. He almost wishes he could hang here forever, almost wishes it didn't have to end. But he knows he can't take much more of this disastrous pleasure, and so, he rides Harry for all he's worth, finally stripping his own prick ruthlessly in time with Harry's thrusts until, with a sharp, eager cry, Draco shudders, clenches, leans over Harry's belly and stripes it with his spunk.

Draco collapses forward, his whole body shaking. Harry pulls out of him, still hard, and he rubs his slick prick between Draco's thighs a few times with a soft, whining groan. Somehow Draco manages to roll onto his stomach on the bed, waving a hand over his legs and bum. "If that's what you want, have at," he murmurs, his whole body still sparking with pleasure.

At that, Harry casts a wandless spell of his own and coats Draco's thighs with lube, then shifts over him, thrusting his prick between Draco's thighs. "Fuck," Harry says breathlessly, his body rolling into Draco's, his hands pressed on either side of Draco's shoulders, pushing into the mattress. "How you feel. I worried I might have lost you." His mouth drags along the curve of Draco's shoulder. "I don't know what I'd do."

Draco sighs, sated and generous now that he's not doing the work. "You can't lose me, Harry. I'm as real as that fucking ugly Gryffindor afghan you keep in the bedroom." He arches back against Harry's thrust. "Merlin help us, but I think we might belong together."

And then Harry's kissing Draco's neck, leaning up on his elbows, his prick moving urgently between Draco's thighs. "God, I love you."

"I know," Draco says, as he hears Harry's soft, ragged breath, knows Harry's coming undone, feels Harry's body clench and tremble above him just before the wetness spills over his thighs. Draco twists his fingers through Harry's, holding them tight.  "I know."

Harry lies over Draco for a moment, heavy and hot, his lips against Draco's hair, then he rolls to the side with a drawn-out groan.  "I missed you so much last night." He's lying on his back, gasping faintly at the ceiling.

Draco shifts, gets an arm over Harry's chest. "You fucking wanker, I missed you too." He presses his lips to Harry's left nipple, enjoying Harry's sharp inhale at the sensation. 

There's a knock on the door, and they both start.

"Harry, Draco, I can't hear anything so I assume you're in there." It's Andromeda. Draco's wordless with shock, half-sitting up, sprawled naked across his aunt's spare room bed. "You're going to miss breakfast if you don't finish up shortly. I'll give you ten minutes."

As they hear her footsteps recede down the hall, they look at each other, aghast, then Harry breaks into a fit of laughter whilst Draco shakes his head and smiles. It'll be a cold day in hell before you can sneak anything past one of the Black sisters, he thinks, his heart is warm with Harry's nearness.

"Best get dressed," Harry says, "and go out to face the music."

Draco supposes they've no other choice. After a quick cleaning charm, they pull on their clothes, and drop the Muffliato. When Draco opens the door, he can hear the soft clank and rattle of dishes from the kitchen. 

"Be brave," Harry says in his ear, and Draco swats Harry's hip. 

"Don't be such a fucking Gryffindor." Draco starts down the hall. "You're in a house of Slytherins, after all."

Harry pads behind him. "Didn't think of it that way," he admits, and Draco tries not to roll his eyes. 

Teddy's sat at the kitchen table finishing up his eggs when they come in, his feet thudding lightly against the rungs of his chair. Andromeda turns around from the hob, a spatula in her hand. She's barefoot, in a pair of yoga pants and a loose pink tunic. "There you are," she says as Teddy catches sight of Harry, his eyes widening. "I can make an omelette, if you like."

Draco gives her a faint smile. "That sounds brilliant."

"Harry" Teddy shouts, and he throws himself off the chair, racing towards Harry. "I didn't know you were here!"

"I came to get Draco," Harry says, but he bends down and catches Teddy up into a crushing hug before dropping him back down again. "Don't you think you ought to finish eating?"

Teddy's shaking his head. "I'm done, right, Nan?" He looks over at his grandmother. "Because I want to show Harry my new Seeker you bought me."

Andromeda's cracking eggs into a bowl. "How much did you eat?"

"Most of it," Teddy says, a bit carefully, and his grandmother rolls her eyes as she picks up a whisk.

"Fine," she says with a sigh. "But go get it and bring it down here. If you drag Harry to your room it'll be half the day before you let him out."

 _Thank you_ Harry mouths to Andromeda as Teddy races from the room. She snorts and shakes her head. 

"I know my grandson," Andromeda says as she flicks her wand towards a knife. It flies across the counter and starts chopping an onion immediately.

Draco looks up as his mother comes into the kitchen, dressed in a neat, green frock. "Did I just see Teddy racing upstairs?" she asks, and then she catches sight of Harry at the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of orange juice. "Oh," she says a bit knowingly, and Draco feels his face heat. 

"They nearly missed breakfast," Andromeda says. She eyes her sister, and Draco's face gets warmer. 

"Stop it, the both of you," he says, and he looks over at Harry. "Are you still planning on going into the office today?"

Harry sets the juice on the table, then walks over to a cupboard, opening it and taking out a stack of plates. "Probably. I'm still trying to figure out how to connect the dots on all those financials Zabini pulled together." He frowns. "The Harkaway one's frustrating me. Parkinson's right--a sixteen-year-old kid shouldn't have had an account that large."

Draco shrugs. "I had a Gringotts account of my own when I was that age." He pulls forks from a drawer and lays them out on the table. 

"One with nearly a million dollars in it?" Harry asks, and Narcissa glances over at them in surprise. 

"I rather think not," she says a bit tartly. "Not even Lucius would have been that mad. Draco's account was much more appropriate for a boy of that age."

Draco frowns. "With bloody spending limits, might I add."

"We were trying to teach you fiscal responsibility," his mother says. She sits at the table and pours juice into one of the glasses Draco sets down for them. 

Harry gives Draco an amused look. "Did it work?"

"Fuck off, all of you," Draco says. He's not about to admit to Harry that he went in the red two months into having the account. Still, he catches his mother shaking her head at Harry. He rolls his eyes. "Maybe Harkaway had a cosignatory on the account--did Blaise check that yet?"

"I don't think so." Harry considers. "It might not have been in our paperwork yet. I haven't seen anything with his grandfather's fingerprints on it, though. He wouldn't have been that stupid, would he?"

Draco shrugs. "Tell Blaise to look for an Astrid Yaxley in the system. His mother might have signed for it."

Narcissa stills, looks over at Draco. "Astrid Yaxley?" she asks, her voice a bit uneven. 

Draco glances at Harry, then his mother. "She's part of a case we've been working on. Why?"

His mother's hand settles on her chest, right below her throat. "It's just…" She looks towards the doorway, then over at her sister. "You remember Astrid, don't you?"

Andromeda sets her bowl of eggs aside. "Yaxley's youngest. The one Bella hated."  
"She had reason," Narcissa says, and she bites her lip. "It didn't start, I suppose until after you…" She stops, her cheeks flushing. 

"After Mother threw me out of the house for marrying Ted, I suppose?" Andromeda's voice is dry. Narcissa nods, looking uncomfortable. Andromeda just waves her hand with a sigh. "Water under the bridge, Cissy."

Draco interrupts. "What about Astrid?" He's tense, all of a sudden, and he turns to his mother. "Why Aunt Bella have reason to dislike her?"

His mother takes a sip of her juice, then looks between him and Harry again. "Astrid was Rodolphus' mistress," she says bluntly. "We all knew it. I mean, Bella was already…" She hesitates.

"Shagging the Dark Lord?" Andromeda asks, and Harry looks over at Draco, his eyes wide. Draco winces slightly. That'll be a conversation they need to have later. For now though, he sits across from his mother, his gaze fixed on her. 

"You're certain of this?" Draco asks. "Astrid Yaxley and Uncle Roddy? You're not misremembering anything?"

Narcissa frowns at him. "I'm not senile, Draco. Yes, I quite remember Astrid Yaxley's father spiriting her away, not long before the…" Her eyes dart towards Harry. "Well. Before the Dark Lord disappeared the first time. Bella wanted her out of the way." She reaches for her juice again. "She was pregnant, you see."

There's a thick silence in the kitchen, that's broken only by the sizzle of the pan on the hob, and Andromeda's quick breath as she turns back to it, reaching for the knob. 

Draco's still, his thoughts swirling around in his head. A pregnant Astrid Yaxley leaving Britain in disgrace, run out of her social circle by Draco's mad aunt? He looks over at Harry. 

"Les Harkaway," Draco says, and he trails off, the enormity of it all hitting him. 

Harry meets his gaze. "Is your bloody cousin."

Draco sinks back in his chair, just as Teddy comes running back in, a Seeker figure clutched tight in his hand. "Look, Harry," Teddy says, and then he stops in the middle of the room, looking around at them, his face falling. "Is something wrong?"

Yes, Draco wants to say as his mother and Harry crowd around Teddy, reassuring him. Everything in this bloody world is wrong. He runs his hands over his face, not certain if he should laugh or cry or slam his fist through the table. 

It all comes back to family, doesn't it? Draco thinks, and he closes his eyes and breathes out. 

That's all he can think to do.

***

Jake drives up to Oudepoort. He could have Apparated, he supposes, but he needs the time to prepare himself for seeing his father again. It's been at least a decade. Maybe more. The drive takes about three hours, going up I-87 North, and he leaves before dawn on Saturday morning, but he has a full tank of gas in his battered red Jeep that Martine had slapped a _honk if parts fall off_ bumper sticker on and the largest iced coffee that Dunkin Donuts sells tucked in his cupholder. He'd put a charm last year on the engine that makes it run on less fuel than one of those new hybrids coming out; to be honest, he could make it all the way up to Montreal if he wanted without having to stop for anything except maybe a bag of chips and a piss.

He starts with Johnny Cash blaring from the CD player, switching the Man in Black out with Willie Nelson just outside of New Paltz. Another forty-five minutes or so later, Jake's singing at the top of his lungs along to _Angel Falling to Close to the Ground_ , his thoughts drifting back to Blaise, quiet and bittersweet and just a bit lonely, as he changes lanes to get off the interstate towards Coeymans. Vibrant green fields rush past him on the smaller roads, and Jake's determined to enjoy the drive, trying his best not to think about where he's going to end up. It feels good to be out of the city. Jake loves the bustle of New York, but it's times like this, out in the countryside, that he remembers his roots a bit more clearly. 

Whether or not he really wants to.

Oudepoort Prison is on the banks of the Hudson River, hidden away behind a small forest that has a Notice-Me-Not spell woven through the trunks and branches. The narrow paved road breaks through the trees, and Jake's first sight of the prison itself is more daunting than he remembers from his last visit all those years ago. Two tall, dirty grey buildings stand side-by-side, bridged together in the middle by a three-storey walkway. There's a fence around the entire complex, the top wrapped in charmed razor-wire that'll slice through anything that even crosses the prison's airspace, and Jake can feel the layers of wards suppressing certain types of magic--mostly the more dangerous ones, he thinks, although he feels as if his body's being pulled through molasses as he parks the Jeep in the small lot. He sits for a moment, letting the wards settle around him. It'll be worse inside, he knows, but at least there won't be as many Dementors. Not because MACUSA wouldn't use them, of course. More because they're bloody difficult to find and Azkaban's had most of them for centuries. And that's what worries him most about the current situation Barachiel Dee's put them all in. Those Dementors fall into the wrong hands, and they'll be sold across the world to places like Oudepoort. And worse.

Jake draws in a deep breath. He's not going to see his daddy, he tells himself. He's going to see a person of interest whom he happens to be related to. That's all. He can do this, he thinks as he turns the Jeep off. Willie's voice fades away, and Jake sits in the silence for a long moment. The sky outside is a bright blue above the brilliant green of the trees. In the distance, past the wire-wrapped fences, Jake can catch a glimpse of the Hudson's silvery, curving shimmer. 

"Pull yourself together, Durant," Jake says, and then he slides his sunglasses off, tossing them in the passenger's seat as he opens the creaking door and slides out of the Jeep. 

He finds the visitor's entrance easily enough; the guard at the desk looks up at him as he comes in. Jake flashes his MACUSA badge, then leans on the ledge and says, "Jacob Bouvier Durant, Unspeakable and Legilimens with the MACUSA Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Northeastern Branch, currently assigned to the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance. Badge number 59100354-Bravo-Fox-Tango." 

The guard reaches for Jake's badge, frowning down at it before he taps it against a metal rectangle on the top of his desk that glows green as soon as the badge touches it. "Who're you here to see?" the guard asks as he hands the badge back. 

Jake hesitates only briefly, then says "Jasper Durant. I'm here on a personal visit."

It doesn't surprise him when the guard's gaze flicks back up to him, more than a bit startled. Jake just looks at him, refusing to be ashamed. Why should he? It's not his fucking fault his father's a goddamn criminal. Still, it irks him when the guard clears his throat and says, "It'll be a moment."

Jake takes a seat over in the waiting room. The last time he'd done this, Eddie'd been with him, both of them sitting in these slick plastic chairs, not a single one of them fashioned to conform to an actual human body as far as Jake can tell. They've not been replaced either, even after all these years. The orange and brown seats are just a bit more scuffed than they'd been back then. 

He picks up a copy of _Quodpot Quarterly_ and flips through it, looking blankly at the glossy photos of fit young athletes in their Quodpot leathers. He doesn't really care, not even when he finds the half-dressed photo shoot. Jake tosses it aside, his stomach churning. He slouches in the chair, his gaze sweeping across the nearly empty waiting room. An older woman sits in the corner, knitting; she glances his way. 

"First time here?" she asks, and Jake shakes his head. 

"Haven't been in a while though."

The woman clucks softly, her knitting needles moving more quickly. "Pity. They always like it when you visit. It gets awfully boring in there."

Frankly, Jake thinks, that's fine with him. He wants his father to be bored, wants him to realise what he fucked up by leaving them alone the way he had. It's been twenty years and Jake still hasn't forgiven the bastard. He's not certain he ever will. 

"Unspeakable Durant?" A petite, short-haired woman in a grey and black guard's robe is standing in the doorway. She's tiny, but Jake would put money on her in a fight. Her shoulders are wide and muscular, and her hand's hovering close enough to her wand to be able to whip it out on the slightest provocation. The looks she gives him is steady, no-nonsense. She holds out her hand as he pushes himself up; he strides across the room and takes it. Her grip's solid and firm. "Anneliese Fuchs. I'm a guard here at Oudepoort. I'll be taking you to see Jasper."

"Thanks," Jake says. He follows her down the hallway to the guard station. 

Anneliese gives him a wry smile. "Don't thank me yet. I need you to empty your pockets. Everything--money, phone, keys, wand." She hands him a clear bag that has his name charmed across it. "All of it in there."

Jake does as she asks, filling up the bag, then sealing it and handing it back to her. She flicks her wand across the top, then motions for him to step forward. "Arms out, legs spread."

The charm that she sends over him with another sweep of her wand tip tickles ever so slightly. Jake manages to hold still, and she frowns at the readout that appears in the air between them. "Clear?" Jake asks after a moment. 

"Clear," she says, and the readout shimmers, then disappears. "We'll be keeping your personal items until you leave. Don't forget to pick them up."

"Pretty certain I won't leave my wand behind," Jake says, and Anneliese snorts. 

"You'd be surprised." She starts down the hall again, flicking her wand at a heavy iron door in front of them. It swings open with a groan of metal. "People get upset visiting folks. Run off in a tizzy."

Jake's stomach twists again. "Won't be me," he says. "Used to be an Auror before I hit the Unspeakables. I've seen plenty."

Anneliese stops in front of another door. "Well, if you need anything, I'll be out here in the hallway." She reaches for the heavy steel handle, pulling it down with a surprising amount of force. "You've got fifteen minutes with him, but if you want to leave earlier? Feel free to shout." 

The door swings open, and Jake steps into the room. There's a man sitting at a table, an orange jumpsuit stretched tight across his broad shoulders. His back's to Jake, but when the door clangs shut, he turns towards Jake. 

It's almost Jake's face looking at him. That's what pulls Jake up short first. That and the small smile that Jake swears is Eddie's. 

"Hello, son," Jasper Durant says, his voice low and honeyed, the way Jake remembers it in his dreams. "It's been a while."

Jake's heart is thudding against his chest, but he won't let his father see how unsettled he is. He meets Jasper's gaze evenly. "Ten years or so," he says after a moment. He doesn't add _you fucking, lying asshole._ Really, that's better left unspoken.

"Almost twelve, actually," Jasper says with a faint smile. "Which would have made you, what? Twenty last time you were here?"

"Something like that." Jake's boots echo as he walks across the room. The table and chairs are bolted into the stone floor; it's only when he gets closer that he sees the glimmer of the Incarcerous bonds tying his father's feet and hands to the table itself. 

Jasper catches the direction of his gaze. "I'm not dangerous," he says. "It's more for show than anything."

"Right." Jake's not so certain about that. He's been in law enforcement long enough to know restraints are only used when absolutely necessary. He takes the seat across from his father. "How've you been?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Jasper says wryly, the wrinkles around his blue eyes deepening when he smiles. Jake's fascinated by the way his father's face moves, by how similar it is to his own as he's aged. This is going to be him in another twenty-five years, with bits of silver threaded through his dirty blond curls. His father's shoulders are just as broad as his, his hips just as narrow, his arms just as muscular. "Been a goddamn joy to spend the past two decades locked up in this shithole, let me tell you." He eyes Jake. "I hear you're coming up in the ranks at MACUSA."

Jake eyes his father. "Yeah? How so?"

"People talk." Jasper leans back in his chair, stretching his arms out as far as the Incarcerous will let him. "Well." His mouth quirks up at the corner. "Eddie talks."

"Eddie would," Jake says. He wonders if his father knows where Eddie is right now. "You heard from him lately?"

Jasper shakes his head. "Last time he came, he said he was going on a long job. Might be out of touch for a while." He studies Jake. "There's a son what doesn't want his father to be worried."

"Like you ever worried about me," Jake says, a little too sharply. He thinks about telling his father exactly what Eddie's been up to, but he doesn't trust Jasper not to say something to the wrong person. 

His father watches him for a long moment, his face sober. "You're wrong about that, boy," Jasper says finally. "I still worry about your fool ass."

Jake looks away. A silence stretches out between them, then Jasper sighs. "You're not here for a family reunion, I take it."

"No." Jake glances at his father. His face is paler than Jake's, almost grey. It's being locked away in here, Jake thinks, being kept away from the sunlight. "Samuel Quahog came to see you last week. Why?"

Jasper laughs. "Twelve years away from me, and I'll had to do to get you to visit was entertain that shithead of a president for five minutes? Fuck me, Jakey boy. I'd have done that years ago if I'd known it'd bring you back here."

"Don't fuck around with me." Jake keeps his voice as even as he can. He tries to look at his father; it's hard. He can't put the man in the orange jumpsuit together with the man who'd raised him, who'd yelled at him from the front porch of their house when he'd done something stupidly dangerous with Eddie, who'd swung his mama around the living room, dancing with her to the radio when the Beatles started playing. That Jasper'd been charming, happy, full of life. Not like the angry man leaning across the table towards him. Jake's jaw tightens. "What'd Quahog want?"

His father doesn't answer for a moment, then he sighs. "He wanted something from me."

Jake turns his head, meets his father's gaze. "What?"

"Fuck it, Jake," Jasper says, slamming his hand against the table hard enough to make Jake jump. "Don't get messed up with this shit. It landed me in here--the last thing I want is you cooling your heels for life in this hellhole."

That makes Jake frown. "What the fuck does he want?" He studies his father's face; Jasper won't look at him. Jake leans over the table. "Daddy."

The word hangs between the two of them, heavy and weighted. Jasper looks at Jake, and his face is careful, guarded, but Jake can feel a swell of emotion behind it, warm and proud, frightened and worried. 

"You can't protect me from this," Jake says after a moment. "I'm going to do my job, and part of that is to figure out what the hell Samuel Quahog's doing." He stops for a moment, then says, quietly, low enough that any listening charms that might be in the room will have a hard hearing, "I already know Quahog's working with Aldric Yaxley."

A spasm of something that looks like fear crosses his father's face. "Stay away from that bastard," Jasper says. He grabs Jake's hand. "Promise me, Jakey--"

"I can't." Jake looks down at his fingers, covered by his father's thicker ones. "I have to do this, and I need your help." He turns his hand beneath his father's palm, lets the tips of his fingers curl around Jasper's. "Please." It's fucking manipulative of him, and he knows it, but Jake's willing to use whatever he has at the moment. 

Jasper's silent, and then he sighs. "Quahog wanted an artefact from me." His mouth twists to one side. "Fuck only knows why. It's not as if it works properly anyway; like I said, it's what landed me in here." He stops and then he says, "Mostly."

"What kind of artefact?" Jake asks, but his father's already shaking his head. 

"It's hidden away, Jakey." Jasper looks over at him then, and Jake knows his father's telling the truth. "Quahog won't be able to get it. Your mama and I made fucking sure of that in the end."

And that makes Jake sit back in surprise. He pulls his hand away. "Mama."

"Your mama always was a smart lady," Jasper says. "She didn't want me in here any more than I did, but there's only so much either of us could do without letting them--" He nods towards the door. "Know too much." He looks at Jake. "Eddie told me they'd kept it from you. What I used to do. How I made our money." 

"Being a goddamn ne'er-do-well?" Jake asks sharply. "That's all I heard."

Jasper gives him a sad smile. "Probably from your mama's kin. They never liked me, never liked my family. Reckon I can't blame them all so much." He looks over at Jake. "Thibodaux never did care for necromancers, did they? Fuck only knows why my granddaddy settled there." Jasper's laugh is bitter. "Except it was a goddamn good place for the craft. Right at a crossroads of two ley lines--" He breaks off, frowning at Jake. "What's wrong with you?"

"Necromancers," Jake manages to say. "You're a fucking necromancer." His mind's buzzing; his body feels cold. He remembers Barachiel Dee looking at him knowingly, saying _you've got talent, boy._ Jake's hand shakes; he clenches his fists, pressing them into the table. 

His father's watching him. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "I'm a necromancer. So was my daddy, and his daddy, and his daddy before him." He scowls. "Your mama's family didn't think our sort was good enough for their precious little girl." He snorts. "If only they knew."

"Knew what?" Jake asks, his voice faint. 

Jasper chews on his lip. He leans into the table, his eyes on Jake's face. "Your mama came from a family of Seers and neuromancers," he says finally. "The Robichaus. Used to claim they were descended straight from Tirésias. I always thought that was bullshit, until you came along." He studies Jake carefully. "Now, I'm not so fucking sure. Maybe they were right and not just trying to shit pretty, you know?" 

"But Mama," Jake manages to say. He remembers being with her when his grandmother died, remembers seeing his Mamère Léonie standing at the foot of her bed, telling him he'd be all right without her. He'd never questioned how he could see her, how he could see his mother when she passed, how he could see the goddamned Dementors swirling about him as he stood beside Barachiel Dee. 

His father nods. "Your mama knew how to walk the line. She wasn't a necromancer, but she wasn't scared of them either. She knew enough about the Dark to know it balanced the Light, and it was sometimes necessary." He stops and says, "Sometimes still is, I reckon." He looks tired and drawn. "Being in here fucks with how I see time." 

Jake doesn't know what to say. He curls and uncurls his fingers, feeling as if his whole world has shifted on its axis. "So you're here because of necromancy then."

"Something like that." Jasper leans forward, but Jake pulls away before his father can touch him. He couldn't bear it right now, he thinks. He doesn't care if his father looks disappointed as he sits back again. 

Neither of them speak for a while, then Jake sighs and runs his hand over his face, swearing softly. "Eddie knew."

"Eddie's always known," Jasper says. "I took him out with me to work some nights when he was older. Would have done the same with you if I'd been there."

That's not exactly comforting, Jake thinks. He wonders how different his life would be if his father hadn't been thrown into Oudepoort, if he'd grown up knowing his family history. Maybe he'd be on a different side of the law; maybe he'd be caught up in Eddie's bullshit. And that makes Jake want to laugh. As if he isn't already caught up in it, in his own way. 

He looks over at his father. "The artefact. Does it have anything to do with necromancy?"

Jasper shrugs. "Might." He meets Jake's gaze evenly. "But I'm not telling you what it is, boy. Especially not here." He looks around the cinderblock walls, painted a dull, grim grey. "People listen too closely sometimes." He gives Jake a pointed look. 

Jake hesitates, then nods. He stops, then says, "The Robichau crest. If I found it on half a piece of stone, what would you think it was?" He watches his father carefully, noting when his look of puzzlement shifts, when his eyes widen just a bit. 

"Probably from a cemetery," Jasper says. He leans forward, lowers his voice. "Get me out of here, I'll show you where."

Jake lets his mind drift across his father's. He catches a glimpse of a crypt, dirty and stained with mould. He knows that crypt. He'd buried his mama in it, down in the middle of Thibodaux, Louisiana. 

_You need me, boy,_ his father whispers in his mind. _Quahog's after something dangerous, and if his lot get hold of it, fuck only knows what they'll do._

All Jake can do is nod. 

The door opens behind him and Anneliese steps in. "Fifteen minutes are up, Unspeakable Durant." She doesn't look Jasper's way. 

"That's a good one there," Jasper says, nodding towards Anneliese. He grins. "She likes to think she's a hardass, but she's fond of me."

"Fuck off, Jasper," Anneliese says, but as he stands Jake catches the faint curve of her lips. 

He's halfway to the door when Jasper calls his name. Jake looks around; his father's watching him, his face solemn. 

"Thibodaux's hot as hell this time of year," Jasper says, "but you and your brother always did love it, didn't you?"

Jake hesitates, then nods, not entirely certain of what his father's trying to say. "We did," he says, and then his father smiles that fucking shit-eating grin that Jake remembers from his childhood. 

"Your Mamère'd love to see you again," Jasper says, and his gaze meets Jake's, holds it. "If you do, send her my love."

A shiver goes through Jake. He nods, then follows Anneliese out into the hallway. The door clangs shut behind him. 

"You all right?" Anneliese asks. 

Jake shrugs. "He's an odd fucker." 

Anneliese gives him a faint smile. "I don't mind him so much. Not that I'll let him know that, you know. That's the first thing they teach you in guard training. Never let the prisoners think you like them. Keeps them on their toes."

"Probably a good idea," Jake says. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that's shit. Especially when it comes to his father. Jasper Durant's always been able to manipulate people. Jake reminds himself of that. Whatever his father says should be taken with a fucking bag of salt. He knows that. Still...he thinks he can almost smell his dead grandmother's perfume. He shakes himself, swears. His father's in his fucking head now, and that's exactly what Jake was afraid would happen again. 

It's why it's taken him ten years--or twelve, whatever--to walk back into the room with Jasper. His father's always been able to get beneath Jake's skin, to make him want things he knows he shouldn't, to believe things he knows are wrong. 

And yet… Jake sighs as he takes his belongings from the guard station, tucking his wallet and his wand back in his pockets. He keeps his phone in his hand though, as he strides through the waiting room, then out the visitor's entrance. 

The moment he slams the Jeep door shut, he dials a number. Waits for it to ring, then go to voice mail. 

"Harry," Jake says, keeping his voice low. "We need to talk. Call me." He hangs up, breathes out. _Fuck. Goddamn fucking fuck._

Jake sits for a moment, his phone still in his hand, watching the two towers of Oudepoort in front of him, wondering what the goddamn shit he's fallen into. With a sigh, he shuts the phone, tosses it aside as he shifts the Jeep into gear and heads back to New York. 

He has a hell of a lot of work to sift through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The next installment should be out on or by January 28--I sadly have to work most of next weekend (UGH) and I don't want to promise an update that might not arrive due to real life interference.
> 
> PS The LONG fic, co-written with Noe, that I mentioned last week? [Things Worth Knowing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12922518/chapters/29528763). It's an Eighth Year Drarry fic featuring Bisexual Harry and post-war Hogwarts. And it's almost 165K. It's different from Special Branch, but who knows? Give it at try! You might like it. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a morning surprise at Grimmauld, Pansy has two visitors, and Robards summons everyone for a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I'm not working next weekend, so there will be a chapter next Sunday--we're closing in on endgame! After all, there aren't too many chapters left in Book Three, are there? And then...the climactic Book Four. The one we've all been waiting for. *cue ominous music*
> 
> Thank you to each and every reader for sticking with this--the story is so much more with your passionate engagement. Many thanks to sassy-cissa for her brilliant continuity work and last-minute fixes and to noe for stepping in when I just can't even. This story will have its one year anniversary next month, and I'm still amazed (and excited!) to be writing it.

Harry lies beneath Draco, his eyes half closed, his breath settling back into a steady rhythm as he strokes his fingers through Draco's silky hair. "Not a bad way to wake up," he murmurs, and Draco laughs against Harry's chest, his long legs shifting between Harry's spread thighs, his spent prick slipping from Harry's arse. 

"I was tired of watching you sleep," Draco says, and he raises up just enough for Harry to cast a half-arsed cleaning spell wandlessly. The magic sparks across their skin, and Harry can feel Draco's tremor, can see the flutter of Draco's eyelashes at the quiet surge of power, the stretch of Draco's still-flushed neck as he tips his head back with a soft sigh. Summer morning sunlight spills through the half-drawn curtains, sets Draco's rumpled hair aglow, and Harry can't help but think that his boyfriend looks like a thoroughly debauched angel. 

"More Michael smiting the fallen ones, one would hope," Draco says through a yawn, "than those dreadful Raphael cherubs." He stretches, his shoulders rolling back as he slides off Harry and flops languidly onto the mattress. 

Harry misses the warmth and weight of him immediately. "I've no idea what you're on about," he says, more sulkily than he'd like. Sometimes Draco makes him feel a right ignorant twat. "And stop poking into my thoughts like that. It's rude."

"Stop thinking them so bloody loudly then," Draco says, a tinge of amusement in his voice, and he drapes a leg over Harry's. "And you're not ignorant." He yawns again. "Uncultured, yes. But not ignorant." He presses a kiss against Harry's shoulder, and Harry relaxes into him.

They'd spent half of yesterday naked and in bed together; Harry hadn't even made it back into the office to go over those financials he'd wanted to look at. It'd been stupid, perhaps, but he'd needed that time with Draco in the end. The case could wait a bit longer; these moments with Draco can't. Harry doesn't know why he feels so strongly about that, doesn't know why he'd woken from a dream in the middle of the night that had felt so real, so vivid, a dream in which he was sleeping alone, a dream in which he'd woken, worried and uncertain for Draco's safety. And when he'd jolted awake for real, those feelings had lingered, heavy and unsettling in his heart as he curled against the solidity of Draco's body, lying awake and listening to the soft, steady rumble of Draco's quiet snore. 

Harry brushes Draco's hair back from his temple. His arse aches comfortably, as do the inner muscles of his thighs; Harry's hole's still stretched, still fluttering at the memory of Draco's prick pressing deep inside of him. Fuck, but Harry loves this man, so stubborn, so determined. Draco can be a complete wanker at times, but Harry thinks he'd do anything for the bastard, anything at all that Draco might ask of him. That's a sobering thought, he realises, and he's not certain how he feels about it. He looks down at Draco's face, taking in the long, golden lashes that sweep across Draco's cheek, the softly sulky, pink fullness of his mouth, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. Harry's chest tightens, then swells, and it takes him a moment to remember to breathe. 

"Stop staring at me," Draco murmurs, not bothering to open his eyes. "It's too bloody early on a Sunday morning."

"It has to be half-ten," Harry says.

Draco rolls against Harry, his arm settling across Harry's waist. "Lies," he says into Harry's skin, and Harry can't help his laugh. 

Harry stretches his arm out, grabs the mobile he'd left on the side table yesterday morning, and that really shows how flustered he'd been, doesn't it? He hasn't even given it a moment's thought since. He squints at the tiny screen. "Half-eight, actually," he says, a bit surprised, and then he notices the voicemail notification. "Hang on." He flips the mobile open, presses the button to dial his inbox. When he hears Jake's familiar drawl, he frowns. 

Draco untangles himself, looking at Harry, a furrow between his brows. "Was that Durant?" he asks as Harry ends the call.

"Yeah." Harry runs his thumb over the keypad of his mobile. "He wants me to ring him back."

"It's the middle of the night in New York." Draco sits up, and Harry doesn't have to be a Legilimens to feel the ripple of annoyance from his boyfriend. "What the hell can't wait until his morning?"

Harry hesitates, then says, "I think he left the message last night." He frowns down at the mobile again. "He didn't say it was urgent."

Draco slides to the edge of the bed. "You're not at his beck and call any longer." His shoulders are hunched, ever so slightly, and Harry wants to run his fingertips along the porcelain curve of Draco's back. Without Harry's glasses, Draco's a soft blur of cream and gold in the sunlight, beautiful and diffused and ever so irate. Draco glances back over at Harry, his mouth turned down at the corners. "Unlike Blaise."

And he has a point, Harry thinks as he closes the mobile, tosses it aside. Jake can wait, at least for now. Harry has other priorities. He pushes himself up, crawls across the mattress towards his boyfriend, his prick swinging against his thighs. "I'm not," Harry agrees, and he reaches out, pulls Draco back, tumbling him into the warm tangle of their stained sheets. He kisses Draco, a rough, easy press of teeth and tongue and Draco's breath catches, his long arms slide around Harry's shoulders, holding Harry close. 

Harry pulls back after a moment, studying Draco through the ends of his fringe. The tightness has left Draco's face; he looks up at Harry with heated grey eyes, his thumb stroking small circles along the nape of Harry's neck. There are love bites along the length of Draco's throat, small and purple, the remnants of their passion. Harry leans in, kisses one. 

"Fuck the world," Harry whispers against Draco's skin. "As long as I've you…" He presses his face into the angle of Draco's jaw, breathing in the sour-sweet scent of his sweaty skin. 

"You're an idiot, Harry Potter," Draco says, but his voice is soft and gentle, and his fingers twist through the edges of Harry's hair. Harry loves the feel of Draco beneath him, the warmth of his skin, the firmness of his muscles. There's nothing fragile and delicate about Draco Malfoy, Harry realises. Whatever anyone else might think. 

"I love you." The words tumble out before Harry can stop them, but he doesn't care, not when he sees the way Draco's eyes light up, the way his lips part in a quiet breath, the way his hands slide to Harry's shoulders, his long fingers splayed across Harry's skin. 

"Do you now?" Draco's tone is light, almost mocking, but it's filled with a warmth and affection that makes Harry feel as if he's bloody flying, even sprawled here on the solid softness of their bed. 

Harry traces a fingertip along Draco's cheek. "Utterly." 

And Draco's smile is bloody incandescent, isn't it, shining up at Harry in a way that takes Harry's breath away, sends Harry's stomach clenching in pure joy. "You're mad," Draco says, but he's laughing, and he arches his shoulders just enough to lean up, to catch Harry's mouth with his. 

The kiss is slow and sweet, and it makes Harry's toes curl against the mattress. He could lose himself in Draco bloody Malfoy, Harry knows that. He wants to. Forever, if he can, and that thought sends his heart stuttering in his chest. Harry's never wanted to spend his life with anyone else. Ever. He's never been able to contemplate it, and here he is, thinking about what it would be like to grow old beside Draco, what it would be like to live their lives together, what it would be like to have children--

Harry pulls back, breaks the kiss. 

Draco frowns up at him. "What's wrong--"

And Harry's shaking his head. "Nothing," he says, and his voice feels thick and raw in his throat. "Nothing. Just…" He looks down at Draco, studying his face as if he might forget it. _Just I want you for eternity._ He draws in an uneven breath. _I want a family with you._ He pushes the thoughts away, back behind his Occlumens. He can't let Draco see those, can't let himself be that vulnerable. Not yet. Not now.

Draco's frown deepens. He touches Harry's face. "Harry," he says, softly, urgently. "What--"

"I love you so much," Harry says again, and the intensity of it all is so bloody overwhelming. He can't keep it back, can't hide it away, and he doesn't want to, doesn't want to hide this part of his feelings from Draco. 

"Oh," Draco says, his eyes widening, and he draws in a shuddering breath. "Harry." 

And then Harry feels something warm and soft and not quite his own twisting through his thoughts, curling around his emotions, tugging at his heart. It swells, blooms, and Harry looks at Draco, their gazes meeting. Harry knows what it is at the featherlight brush of Draco's fingertips along his jaw, can feel all of it, that rush of love and fear and joy that's so like his and yet not his at all. It pushes through his consciousness, and Harry drinks it in, feels the ways in which Draco loves him, needs him, wants him, and it prickles across his skin, settles deep within his heart. 

"I will always love you," Draco whispers, his lips skimming Harry's earlobe, and Harry knows this, understands it in a way he never has before, feels that love rumble and coil throughout his entire body. Draco pulls back, looks up at Harry. "I promise."

All Harry can do is nod, and he lays his head against Draco's shoulder, listening to the steady, even beat of Draco's heart. He doesn't want to lose this. He's terrified he might. 

They lie silently, their bodies tangled for a long moment. The warmth of the sunlight through the windows spills across Harry's back, faint bits of dust shimmering in the air around them, and Harry knows he has to breathe this in, to hold this memory close, to remember it as clearly as he can. He doesn't know why, but the whole of him is screaming at him, telling him he needs to, that he has to let himself take all of this in, feel this swirl of emotion that's twisting between the two of them, tying their hearts, their souls, their bodies together. There'll be a day he'll have to remember this moment. All of it. 

He doesn't know why.

And then Draco is kissing his shoulder, shifting beneath him. "I need a shower," Draco says, with a wrinkle of his nose, and even that makes Harry's breath catch. "Get off me, you wretch." But his smile is bright and quick as he pushes at Harry, and Harry rolls to one side, watching Draco slide off the bed. Draco looks over his shoulder. "You reek yourself, you know."

Harry does, he's quite aware. "If I join you, you'll never manage to get clean," he says, and Draco shrugs.

"Point taken." Draco pads across the room, looking utterly delectable, long and lean and beautifully naked. He stops at the door to the en suite. "But I'm not cutting my shower short for you, mind."

Harry sits up in the bed, and he catches the look Draco drags down his body. He doesn't bother to hide the half-swell of his prick between his thighs. "I'll manage with cleaning charms for now," Harry says easily. If he has his way, Draco'll be needing another shower by the afternoon. "Besides, I want some coffee."

"Pour a cup for me," Draco says, disappearing into the en suite. "Strong and with milk, please," he calls back, and then Harry hears the rush of the shower. 

For a moment, Harry sits silently, breathing out, the echoes of those emotions still roiling within him. 

_I want everything with you I've been told I could never have._

Harry wonders what Draco would say if he walked in there right now, if he pulled back the shower curtain and said those words. Would Draco understand? Would Draco agree? Harry knows Draco loves him. He can feel it, even now, sparking across his skin, and he knows what a gift Draco just gave him. 

But loving someone, even as intensely as he and Draco love one another, doesn't mean they want the same things in the end. And Harry knows now what he wants from Draco. A life together. A family. All the things he longed for when he was younger; everything he'd thought he could find with Ginny. 

A laugh bubbles up from deep inside, both bitter and bright. It's the bloody house, he thinks, and he looks around him, takes in the sunlight walls, the gleaming furniture. He breathes in the sweetly rose-scented air. "You're making me mental," he says to the ceiling. "It's you, isn't it? What I want from him? Is it real or is it something you're pushing on us both?"

The house is still, quiet around him, and Harry wants to bury his face in his hands, wants to curl himself into the mattress and breathe until these feelings fade, until they slide into something more familiar to Harry, something less bloody terrifying. 

Instead he stands, his body swaying only slightly as he catches his balance, reaches for his glasses and his wand on the side table. He casts another cleansing charm across him, feeling it shiver across his skin, deep into his arse. He hates that feeling, hates the way it leaves him empty, his skin a bit too tight. For a moment, he thinks again about joining Draco in the shower, pressing his boyfriend against the wet tile and kissing him senseless. It's what the house would want; Harry can feel that in his very bones, and he frowns. He won't give Grimmauld Place the satisfaction, he thinks, and he walks over to the bloody dressing room the fucking house gave Draco only two months past. He opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of clean joggers and slides them on, stopping to fix his prick in the folds of thick cotton. He shoves his wand in the waistband; there's no need to bother with pants, he thinks, but he does grab a t-shirt on his way out of the dressing room.

When he leaves the bedroom he can hear Draco singing in the shower, the acoustics of the en suite echoing his perfectly on pitch version of the Weird Sister's _Do the Hippogriff._ Harry shakes his head, smiling, taking the stairs, sometimes two at a time, down to the kitchen, his t-shirt still wadded up in one hand.

Kreacher's sat at the table, his spindly little legs swinging in the air, his bare feet only just missing the rungs of the chair. He's eating porridge from a small bowl, the spoon scraping the sides as he looks up at Harry. "Master," he starts to say, but Harry holds up a hand. 

"Finish your breakfast," Harry says, and he heads for the hob, reaching for the kettle to fill it up at the sink. "There's no coffee yet, right?"

"Kreacher is not expecting the masters to be waking." Kreacher eyes Harry unhappily. "The house is thinking you should be being back upstairs--"

"The house can sod off," Harry says, his shoulders tightening. He fills the kettle with water, then sets it back on the hob, tapping his wand against it. He pulls his t-shirt over his head, smoothing it down. He walks over to the refrigerator, all too aware of Kreacher's gaze on him. "Stop fretting," Harry says, and he reaches for a yoghurt. He's hungry, but he doesn't want to eat too much. He might want to go for a run in a bit. Or have another round of brilliant fucking with Draco buried deep inside of him. When he steps back, the refrigerator door swinging shut behind him, Kreacher's still frowning at him. Harry sighs. "You don't need to do _everything_ around here, you know." It's an argument he's been having with Kreacher since he first started living at Grimmauld Place. He'll never win it, Harry's fully aware of that. Kreacher's spent far too long with the Black family. But Harry has to try. 

Kreacher huffs an exasperated sigh. "You is being stubborn again." 

Harry wants to laugh. If anyone's bloody stubborn in this house, it's Kreacher. He grabs a spoon from the drawer beside the sink, ignoring the way Kreacher's eyebrows draw together. "Draco and I are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves--"

"The house is saying you is not." Kreacher's frown deepens, his mouth dragging down at the corners. "The house is knowing--"

"Enough," Harry says, his voice rising, and Kreacher falls silent. His ears flop a bit, twitching forward as his shoulders hunch, and Harry feels guilty. He doesn't like shouting at Kreacher. It never does any good, anyway; Kreacher just skulks off to his rooms for a day or two, ignoring Harry, and then he goes back to doing whatever the hell he wants. Still, Harry's grateful for the quiet, even if Kreacher does give him a mulish look as he slides off his chair, Vanishing his bowl with a snap of his fingers as he stomps over to his door, his bare feet slapping angrily against the wooden floor. Harry knows he'll pay for it later, but he doesn't care. Or at least that's what he tells himself as Kreacher's door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing in the silence of the kitchen. 

Harry reaches for the coffee tin, scooping the fragrant grounds into the French press. He feels a complete heel, like he always does when he and Kreacher row. 

Sometimes Harry wishes Kreacher would bloody take the socks and old t-shirts Harry leaves out for him. And he feels terrible at that thought. He knows Kreacher has nowhere else to go. Whatever family he'd once had has died away; Harry'd found that out when he'd first come to Grimmauld and tried to release Kreacher from his servitude. It'd be cruel to pull Kreacher from the house. It's part of Kreacher now, Harry thinks. 

The kettle shrieks. "Hot, hot, hot. Oh my goodness, hot!"

Harry grabs it from the hob, and pours the boiling water over the coffee grounds. The kettle sighs in relief, spurting out the last little bit of the water as it shakes itself in Harry's hand. 

"Better, love," the kettle squeaks, and Harry sets it aside, levitating his yoghurt, the French press and a coffee cup to the table. The Sunday edition of the _Prophet_ is already there, folded beside Harry's usual chair, and Harry feels another pang of guilt. He glances at Kreacher's closed door as he sits down. Christ, but he's a wanker, isn't he? Harry sighs and reaches for the paper, shaking it open. 

And then Harry stills, his stomach clenching when he sees the front page story, above the fold.

The headline is bold beneath the _Prophet_ 's masthead; the picture of Harry is from Kingsley's press conference back in May, the one in which he'd first admitted the Wizengamot was considering a Death Eater Registry. Harry's on the dais, Ministry banners fluttering behind him, Hermione by his side. He looks grim, Harry realises, angry even, and it had to be from that moment when he'd realised what Kingsley was proposing and how it would affect Draco. His gaze drops to the story. It's long--across two columns on the front page and continued inside on page three. He bites his lip, then skims the text.

_**Harry Potter: Wounded Saviour or Dangerously Unstable?  
By Orla Quirke** _

Fuck, Harry thinks. Of course it'd be Orla, wouldn't it? Then again, perhaps that's better than Skeeter taking him on. But not by much, he has to admit. He draws in a deep breath, steadying himself for whatever's to come. The beginning's the usual tripe about him, a rehash of all the old history that everyone in the bloody wizarding world knows. And then Harry exhales, his gaze sliding to the next paragraph. 

_For all that Potter currently leads an apparently normal life as an Inspector in the Auror force, he has been sent out of Britain on numerous missions. Some sources close to the Head Auror's office have suggested that it was well-known to the DMLE higher-ups that Potter was erratic, and that the report was that Gawain Robards has been keeping him out of London at the behest of the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was most recently sent to New York last month, surprisingly shortly after the murder of suspects in custody._

"What the bloody fuck," Harry says, half under his breath. That's bloody bollocks and anyone in the DMLE would know that. To begin with, Harry'd asked specifically to be put on Luxembourg detail, partially because he was sick of everything he did showing up in the sodding _Prophet_ , and Barnabas Cuffe bloody well knew that. To be honest, Harry's surprised that Cuffe would let this sort of rubbish be published. Gawain had a fucking arrangement with the _Prophet_ editor, after all, to keep Harry out of the paper as much as possible. Harry's eyes skip a few paragraphs down. 

_Griselda Marchbanks, member of the Wizengamot for Essex, has gone on record, speaking to the_ Prophet _in an interview last week. "I'm sure poor Harry doesn't realize how dangerous his magical surges are," Marchbanks said sympathetically. "But those close to him really aren't doing him any favours. I've watched him set things on fire before my very eyes with accidental magic." She stopped at this point, and looked quite serious. "If he can't control himself, or if something evil is using him, it's a terrifying prospect for the safety of Magical England."_

Harry curses, remembering the nasty encounter with Marchbanks in the Ministry teashop. Christ, had it only been a week and a half ago? A twist of shame curls through him as he recalls his own fit of temper, the burning tea that raised blisters on his hand. He'd been so angry at Marchbanks, he'd lost all sense of reason. Freddie'd assured him earlier this summer that the magical outburst were partially suppressed anger, that once he became more comfortable with even feeling his unpleasant feelings that he might stop acting out reflexively with magic. But deep down, Harry does think something's wrong with him, that these flares of temper and magic can't be normal. No one else deals with them, Harry thinks, and he's not the only one to have suffered during the war. He was, however, the only one who had a bloody Dark Lord in his head. Maybe Marchbanks is right--maybe he _is_ dangerous to everyone around him.

And then his gaze catches a very familiar word, a word he hasn't seen in print in years, and the breath leaves his body in a rush.

 _"Harry Potter acted as a Horcrux for the Dark Lord," an unnamed senior Ministry official told_ The Prophet _in strictest confidence. "For the layman, that's a sort of magical repository, a piece of a soul trapped through Dark magic within a person or an item, and Potter seems to have played the role since he received the scar when he was fifteen months old. There's no way of telling that he's not still under the influence of the sinister power that possessed him for so many years." One has only to look at past issues of the Prophet to see a history of Potter's instability. Journalist Rita Skeeter has been tracking Harry Potter's magical flux for years. "I'm not surprised this information is being discussed," Skeeter said. "Even during Potter's Hogwarts years other students had strong questions about his mental and emotional stability. Perhaps these outbursts were fueled not by adolescent hormones but rather by a Darker power." Another Ministry source agreed with this assessment, adding, "There may not be anyone strong enough to contain Potter if his powers continue to warp or if he goes rogue."_

Harry throws the paper down to the table and swears, loudly and colourfully. Unnamed official his arse. This has Saul Croaker written all over it, and it's just the sort of Skeeter-like poison that a news-hungry populace loves to hear. He buries his head in his hands, trying to breathe, trying to calm himself. The edges of the _Prophet_ start to smoke, tiny flames curling around the corners, and Harry slaps his hand against them, snuffing them out. He'll be bloody damned if he's going to give this fucking shit any sort of credence, even in the privacy of his own home. 

And then there's a noise from upstairs, the clang of the Floo, and Harry knows that can only be a handful of people. He hears his name called, in Hermione's worried voice. They've read the _Prophet_ then, Harry thinks, and he sits silently, his body tight and tense as footsteps clatter down the steps. 

"Harry," Ron says, and Harry looks up at him. Ron's still in his pyjamas, a loose pair of blue plaid trousers that hang from his hips and an old orange Cannons shirt that's stretched tight across his broad shoulders. Hermione's right behind him, a fuzzy grey bathrobe wrapped around her; she's wearing yoga pants and a blue Middlesex Cricket Club t-shirt beneath it, and her hair's still wrapped in the scarf she sleeps in. Ron's hand falls on Harry's shoulder. "We read the _Prophet._ "

"It's awful," Hermione says, and she's reaching for Harry, wrapping her arms around him as she pulls him to her side. Harry leans his head against her bathrobe; it smells a bit musty until he gets a whiff of lavender. He lets her stroke his hair. "Where's Malfoy?"

"Showering," Harry mumbles into Hermione's side. He gets a mouthful of fuzz, and he pulls back, wiping the back of his hand against his lips. Hermione's brows are practically pressed together, her mouth a thin, angry line. "I just read it. He hasn't."

Ron sits next to Harry. He eyes the charred edges of the paper. "Well, you didn't burn the house down, so that's good."

Frankly, Harry doesn't think the house would let him burn it down, but he doesn't want to get into that with his friends, so he just leans back in his chair and exhales. "Gawain's going to have kittens."

"Forget kittens," Hermione says, and she paces between the table and the sink. "Gawain's going to have bloody Hippogriffs at this point." Her gaze goes to the _Prophet_ in front of Harry. "Merlin, Harry, I told you to be careful--"

"Why," a cool, calm voice says from the doorway, "has my kitchen been overrun by pyjamaed Gryffindors?"

Harry turns in his chair. Draco strides in, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms himself in thin grey jersey, the elastic of his y-fronts showing just above the low-slung waistband. His hair's wet and pulled back from his face with a hair tie, and he hasn't bothered to heal the love bites on his throat, nor the long scratches along his back that Harry catches a glimpse of when Draco walks over to the refrigerator and opens the door. 

"Oh," Hermione says, and she looks a bit discomfited, her gaze flicking towards the pink marks across Draco's shoulder blades.

Ron just presses the plunger on the French press calmly. "Harry, you really need to trim your fingernails." He takes the empty mug from in front of Harry and pours the coffee into it before leaning back, the mug cupped between his hands. He eyes Draco, who's pulled out the apple juice, scowling Ron's way. "Or stop mauling Malfoy's back like that."

"Fuck off," Draco says, but his frown fades a little. He takes a glass from the cabinet and pours juice into it. "And stop drinking my coffee." He walks past Hermione. "So what brings you here at this godawful hour, and with Granger bare-faced?" He glances at her over the rim of his glass. "It works on you, by the way."

Harry watches, bemused, as Hermione rolls her eyes. "As if I care what you think about that," she says, but Harry thinks she looks a bit pleased, all things considered. His gaze follows Draco as he takes the seat opposite him. Harry's body responds to the sight of his half-naked boyfriend; even with his best friends flanking him, Harry has an urge to reach for Draco, to pull him across the wide wooden tabletop, to kiss him until he's gasping, to feel the warmth of Draco's skin beneath his fingers. 

Instead he looks away, shifting, spreading his thighs to give his prick a bit more room in his joggers. He's silent for a moment, all too aware of Draco's steady gaze on him.

"Harry?" Draco asks softly, and Harry finally glances up at him. He exhales, then pushes the _Prophet_ across the table. 

"There was an article this morning," Harry says. Ron and Hermione are quiet as Draco picks the paper up with a frown. 

Draco's scowl deepens as he reads the front page, then he opens the paper to page three, his face hidden behind the newsprint. Harry stares at his picture, watches himself glare at the room from the page. His stomach twists; his chest feels tight and cramped. It hurts to breathe, and he can feel the worry and fear twist through him.

"Harry," Hermione says, as if from far away, and then Ron's pressing the warm mug of coffee into Harry's hands, pushing it up towards Harry's mouth, and Harry takes a sip, grimacing at the strong bitterness as it snaps him back into his body. He draws in a ragged breath, then exhales, nodding at Ron, who sits back, his face still worried and grim. Harry curls his fingers around the thick pottery mug. It's almost too hot to hold, but he grips it tighter, needing the warmth in his shaky hands. 

And then Draco folds the _Prophet_ up, his face unreadable. "Kreacher," he calls out, and there's a moment, a half-breath before Kreacher's door opens and the elf shuffles out. Draco doesn't even look Kreacher's way; his gaze finds Harry's, catching it as Draco holds out the paper. "Incinerate this shit," Draco says, his voice calm and even. 

With a snap of Kreacher's fingers, the _Prophet_ bursts into flame, the ash falling from Draco's fingers as he drops the paper onto the floor. It disintegrates, and Draco's jaw tightens. There's a flash of fury in his eyes that Harry recognises, and Draco pulls his gaze from Harry's, turning towards Kreacher. "And cancel our subscription, please," Draco says.  
"I don't want libellous rubbish like this in our house."

Harry breathes then, an unsteady exhale that he didn't realise he was holding in. He puts the mug of coffee back down, pushes it towards Ron.

Draco looks back at him. "It was stupid of you to let Marchbanks see that," he says after a moment, as if Ron and Hermione aren't even in the room. "You know that."

All Harry can do is nod. "I know," he says. His voice sounds rough, even to his ears. 

"You gave her ammunition." Draco glances at Kreacher. "More cups. I think this is going to require caffeination for all of us." Kreacher snaps his fingers again, and three more mugs fly from the cabinet. Another snap, and the milk comes from the refrigerator, along with the sugar bowl from the counter. Draco looks over at Hermione. "This reeks of Croaker, of course."

Hermione sits beside Ron, shrugging out of her bathrobe and letting it fall behind her, pooling on the back of her chair. "Most likely." She doesn't meet Harry's gaze. "But if it is, he's not really trying to go after Harry." 

"I bloody well think he is," Ron says, leaning in, his elbows on the edge of the table. "What the hell else would this mean?" And frankly, Harry agrees. 

"It does feel rather personal," Harry points out. He reaches for another of the mugs and pours coffee into it, along with a heavy splash of milk. "The whole article was about me."

Draco and Hermione exchange a long look. "Yes," Hermione says after a moment. She rubs her cheek. She's not wearing a bra beneath her t-shirt; Harry can tell by the way her breasts move as she folds her arms on the table. She looks tired, but there's a set to her jaw that he recognises all too well. Saul Croaker's just narked her off. Horribly, Harry thinks, and that's never a good thing. Hermione frowns, then says, "You're a side target, really. Saul's aiming for Kingsley, at least as far as I can tell. You're collateral damage. If he can make you seem untrustworthy, then it's easier to undermine Kingsley. People will be less willing to blindly accept your support of him."

"If you threw your support behind Croaker, Harry," Draco says, thoughtfully, almost as if to himself, "my guess is that there'd be a retraction of all of this in the _Prophet_ tomorrow." 

Harry scowls. "I won't do that to Kingsley."

Draco's gaze shifts to Harry. He blinks, long and slow, then says, "Of course you wouldn't." He rubs his hands over his face, then drops them. "So the question is, what do we do about this?" He bites his lip, then says, "Quirke's smart. Between the unstable magic angle and the Horcrux…" He sighs, swears beneath his breath. 

"It's not as if Skeeter hasn't mentioned the Horcrux bit before," Harry protests. "She's brought it up in more than one article about me since the end of the war."

"But only as rumour." Hermione drums her fingertips against the table. "There's never been any real confirmation of it. Now Orla has Ministry officials on record saying you were one--"

"I was," Harry says, rubbing his thumb over the rim of his mug. "They're not really lying."

"Which is the whole point, you pillock," Draco snaps. He glares at Harry from across the table. "Those of us around you might know you're not carting around the Dark Lord in your head any longer, but the general public can't be certain of that. Which is the whole point behind this bloody article." He leans back in his chair, his lip caught between his teeth. "It's the grain of truth in all of it that's the problem. You were a Horcrux. None of us can deny that. You do have a bloody tendency to set things aflame when you're angry. Again, not something we can protest. And the fucking brilliance of Quirke's article is that we can't say a fucking thing about any of it, and she knows it, and here the idiocy of the average _Prophet_ reader is only going to underscore the connections she's trying to make between the two kernels of truth to make you look like you're possibly off your nut." A muscle in his cheek twitches. "And Skeeter's using my own stupidity when we were in school to underscore all of that." He sighs. "I never thought at the time I'd regret spilling half your secrets to that bloody damned beetle."

Harry wants to protest, wants to tell Draco that's ridiculous, that this isn't his fault. Before he can, Ron sighs and looks over at Harry. "Malfoy's right," Ron says. He glances at Draco. "It was bloody stupid of you."

Draco shrugs, and Harry can see the unhappiness writ on his face. "Yet another youthful mistake I'm having to suffer the consequences of," Draco says after a moment. He looks over at Harry. "I'm sorry."

And Harry doesn't know what to say to that. He swallows past the tightness in his throat and says, a bit roughly, "Don't be." He knows Draco won't accept the absolution, not really, not when Draco looks away. 

The kitchen is silent for a long moment, then Hermione sighs. "We've dealt with this sort of thing before," she says, and she doesn't glance at Draco. "We'll ignore it. Just act as if it's not an issue, and it'll go away." Even she doesn't sound convinced. 

Draco meets Harry's gaze. "It won't," he says, his voice quiet. He looks over at Hermione. "They'll use him as a political pawn, the way they always do--"

"Kingsley won't," Hermione says, but it's a weak argument and they all know it. Kingsley's trotted Harry out whenever he's needed him in the past. Harry thinks bitterly of the press conference that the _Prophet_ had taken the photograph from. Even then. He'd been on that dais to lend a certain credence to Kingsley's speech, to the possibility of a Death Eater Registry. Harry's always known that. As much as he's wanted to pretend otherwise. 

_Even the Saviour of the Wizarding World supports this._ That's what they'd wanted him to say, and he hadn't. He wouldn't. 

But he might have. Before Draco. 

Harry looks at Draco, at the stubborn set of Draco's mouth, at the fear he can see deep within Draco's steady gaze. "What do we do?" he asks. This isn't something he's prepared for. Not as a Gryffindor. This is going to take the finesse of a Slytherin. Even Harry can see that, and he knows Ron can too by the way his best mate nods, his head turning towards Draco.

Draco draws in an unsteady breath, his hands flattening against the tabletop. He's silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Harry, and then he exhales. "I've no bloody clue," he whispers, and he turns in his chair, away from Harry. 

Harry's heart sinks. He looks around the table, at Ron's worried frown, at Hermione's furious face, at Draco, his arms folded across his chest, his shoulders slumped, his head bent. Kreacher's stood quietly beside the sink, his shoulders pressed against the counter, his eyes wide and uncertain. 

He can't ask them to take this on. Harry knows that. All he'll do is drag all of them down with him. He's been through this before; he knows how his words are twisted, turned against him in the press. 

"Well," Harry says finally, and he picks up the nearly empty French press. "I think we're going to need more coffee then."

And a hell of a lot more luck, he thinks grimly. 

Harry's just not certain he's any of that left.

***

The heat's the first thing that hits Jake when he steps out of the cool air conditioned baggage claim at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International. Hot and muggy, the thickness of the air slows Jake's step a little, brings up a bit of dampness around his hairline. He'll get used to it, he knows, but there's always that little bit of shifting his body has at do at first when he makes his way below the Mason-Dixon again, that subtle reminder that he's not a part of this world any longer, that he left it years ago.

Jake stops for a moment on the curb, his leather duffle hanging from his shoulder, his small carry-on beside him, the handle still pulled up. The bustle of the airport pickups shifts around him, the blare of cab horns, the rattle of luggage wheels across asphalt, the laughter--and occasional swearing--of passengers who've finally made it off their plane. It'd been easier for him to take a plane than to get a Portkey on a Sunday. Less trackable too, and if he's honest, that'd been at the forefront of his mind when he'd shown up at JFK and purchased a ticket. Jake doesn't like flying. He never has; he hates being trapped in a plane for hours, hates the way the movement of the plane makes him nauseous, sends his magic rolling inside of him. But even Apparition would be trackable by his magical signature, if whichever bastard taking over from Graves tomorrow wanted to find him. Muggle transportation will take a little longer, will be the last thing they think he'll do. Maybe that'll buy Jake the time he needs. 

To do what, he still doesn't fucking know. 

He could have brought his father with him, the way Jasper had been hinting. But Jake's fairly certain he's not ready for a prison break. That seems a bit extreme, whatever his pissant of a daddy might think. For now, at least, Jake's still holding a MACUSA badge; he's still part of a law enforcement division, and he'll be damned if he's going to escalate any of this that quickly. Jake rubs the back of his neck. He wonders how long it'll be before MACUSA realises he's not in London any longer. Hermione'll cover for him, he thinks, but eventually they'll realise his reports aren't coming back in. For all he knows, Saul Croaker'll mention it. Jake's started to accept he's not going to have a job after this. At least not one in New York, and that makes his heart ache. He loves his Brooklyn apartment, loves the feel of the city around him, loves the hustle of the New York streets. Somehow in the time he's worked for Tom Graves, Jake's become a New Yorker himself, and he doesn't want to leave it. 

There's always security work, he supposes, and that makes him sigh, run his hand over his face. Martine's going to fucking kill him. More for not telling her what he's doing than actually doing any of this. She's going to be hurt that he's shut her out. But Graves is right about one thing. Jake can't bring any of this to Martine. Or Alma. As much as he might like to. He's not idiot enough to risk their careers too, not unless it's absolutely necessary, and besides, it's better not to bring any of this to MACUSA's notice. Not until he has what he needs to bring Samuel Quahog and Aldric Yaxley to their knees. 

And that sends a shiver down Jake's spine, despite the heat and the trickle of sweat beneath his polo. Jake's about to take on the goddamn MACUSA presidency, about to try to destroy MACUSA itself in a way he never expected. Jake hates that. It makes his heart ache, if he's honest. When he'd come on board as an Auror, then an Unspeakable, Jake had promised to uphold his government and its laws, to protect it, to defend it. And now look at him, he thinks grimly. Standing here on the arrivals curb at MSY, about to do what he can to bring down everything he'd once supported. 

For its own fucking good.

His hand settles on the top of his duffle bag. The USB drive Graves had given him on Friday's still there, tucked away with his laptop, a protection charm on both. Jake's been through everything Graves handed over. There's enough there to start a case against Yaxley, that's for certain, or at least to enhance what Harry's team has already collected. But it's not enough for an extradition. Not yet, at least. Aldric Yaxley can afford the best lawyers money can buy. If they're going to bring a case against him, it needs to be airtight. 

And that's why Jake's here, following his goddamned father's tip to Thibodaux. He doesn't know why. He doesn't even know what he's coming after. He just knows that Eddie's been pointing him towards his mama's family since the Gringotts break-in, and if Samuel Quahog's after something that his daddy thinks might be down here….well. Jake has to fucking find it first, doesn't he?

Jake just wishes Harry'd return his goddamn call.

That thought makes Jake dig through his pocket, pull out his cell phone. He'd turned it off just before he'd left his apartment for JFK; he hadn't wanted anyone to use the GPS to track his movements. He'd even taken a cab over to the airport, for Christ's sake, and that's probably a level of paranoia he hadn't really needed. 

Still, Jake doesn't trust Aldric Yaxley. Fuck, he barely trusts Tom Graves, if he's honest. 

He'd checked the phone during his layover in Philadelphia, listened to the voicemail Harry'd left for him. It'd been risky, Jake knows, but even when MACUSA checks his phone records, they'll only be able to trace him to Philadelphia. He closes his eyes, lets the memory of Harry's message drift through his mind.

 _Jake, what's going on? What's so urgent it can't wait for Monday? Ring me back when you've a chance._ There'd been a pause, then Harry'd lowered his voice. _There's a_ Prophet _article about me today. It's not good, mate._ Harry'd sighed. _Anyway. Ring me._

For a moment, Jake has an urge to flip his phone open, to call Harry right here. That's fucking stupid, of course. The last thing Jake needs is to fuck this all up by letting his cell ping a cell tower. His fingers curl around the phone, and he glances to his right, then his left. No one's watching him as he lets the phone drop from his hand, smashing against the concrete. He steps on it, pressing his heel against the face of the phone, putting the entirety of his weight on it. The plastic snaps, the glass cracks. Jake can feel the circuit boards housed inside the casing give way beneath two hundred-plus pounds of muscle, and he slides his wand from his pocket, discreetly Vanishing the remnants. 

Jake'll call Harry back from a landline. Preferably one that can't be traced, and he knows how to get one of those, doesn't he?

"Hey, you Yankee asshole!" 

Jake looks up; an old teal blue Ford pickup's stopped in front of him, one of those ones from the '60s with the rounded hood and the silver grill and the whitewalled tyres. It's spotless, the paint gleaming, the undercarriage mud-free. A woman's in the driver's seat, plump and rounded, her tanned arms exposed by a white tank-top, her blonde curls piled up on top of her head. There's a faint sheen of sweat on her skin; it gives her a slight glow. She grins at him. "Thought that'd get your attention, Jakey-Jake."

"Georgie Durant, you bitch," Jake says, but he's smiling over at his cousin. "You're late."

"You're early," Georgie corrects, and she's leaning over to push the door open. "Get in."

Jake throws his bags in the back of the truck, casting a quick wandless charm to keep them in place before he slides into the cab of the pickup. 

Georgie leans over, kisses his cheek. "Where y’at, cher?"

"All right," Jake says as she leans back, puts the truck in gear. "Life's not bad." Not great at the moment, either, but Jake's not going to share that with his cousin. He buckles his seat belt, tries to seem calm. Unruffled.

Still, Georgie gives him a sharp look. She's always been one of his favourite cousins, and about the only one he's regularly kept in touch with over the years. Georgie's his age, even if she looks half a decade younger in her tank top and her frayed denim shorts. She's not like the other Durants, Jake thinks. She has the Durant charm, but there's something more honest about Georgie, a frankness that his daddy and hers hadn't ever had. 

"How's Uncle Rufus?" Jake asks, and Georgie shrugs. 

"Up to his usual bullshit," she says, a bit shortly. Jake knows Georgie's never cared for her father either, or maybe it's that she cares too much, he thinks. Same as him. Still, Georgie's embarrassed by their family, and Jake understands that all too well. Georgie sighs, then adds, "He says he's not thieving any more." The look she gives Jake is dubious at best. "Reckon he's just saying that, though, since I told him he couldn't see Lottie if he was, and he adores her." Her mouth twists to one side. "More than he ever did me and Mama, that's for fucking sure." The words aren't bitter, not really. Just true. Jake's Aunt Susette had left Rufus back before Jasper had been sent up to Oudepoort. It'd been the fucking around she hadn't been able to take, and the whole family had been appalled when she'd packed her and Georgie's bags and moved them out, even more so when she'd enrolled herself in Nicholls State to get her degree in nursing. It'd been bad enough she'd left Rufus; the whole Durant family had turned on her when she'd taken up with those No-Majs. Ironic, really, Jake thinks, since half the money Rufus had brought in was from swindling No-Majs--or outright stealing from them. Susette'd always had a healing touch, everyone knew that. Jake thinks she's brought it to the No-Maj population as a way to make up for her ex-husband's crimes.

"Lottie all right, then?" Jake hasn't seen Lottie since she was almost two and Georgie'd brought her up to Atlanta for a visit. He remembers a laughing little girl with blonde curls and a button nose. She has to be ten now, he thinks. Maybe older. It's just been her and Georgie all her life; Georgie'd gotten pregnant unexpectedly, and she's never talked about Lottie's father. Jake's not even certain her own mama and daddy know who he was, and maybe it doesn't matter. Georgie's a damn good mom; she always has been. 

Georgie gives him a bright smile. "Fucking brilliant. Maybe even Ilvermorny-smart, her teachers say." Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Not that I want to lose her up that way, but they think she should apply once she finishes up sixth grade. There's a scholarship she might be able to get, which would be a blessing, wouldn't it?" And Jake knows it would be. Ilvermorny's damn expensive, and there's no way Georgie would be able to afford the fees. Not even with her mama helping.

"That's good, though," Jake says quietly. "Yeah?"

" I reckon." Georgie's quiet for a moment as they leave the airport behind, then she picks up a bottle of water and hands it to Jake. "Thought you might be parched from the plane. It's an hour or so to Lafourche Parish."

Jake's fingers curl around the water. "Thanks."

Georgie eases the pickup onto I-310, frowning as the cars whip past them. There's a charm on the pickup, Jake knows, one that'll keep them from being hit, but he still presses his foot against the floor, as if by doing so, he could make the truck go faster. 

He looks over at his cousin. "I appreciate you picking me up." He could have Apparated, he thinks, but he'd wanted to see Georgie before he showed up, wanted to ease himself into Thibodaux and the inevitable family reunion this way. Neither one of them says anything for a good ten minutes or so; Jake's glad of that, really. He watches New Orleans pass him by, or the edges of it, at least, the low-slung warehouses and the broken-down, ramshackle houses. The destruction that's still been left by Hurricane Katrina a year ago. The flooding's gone, but the storm's left its mark on buildings and lives. Bright orange spray-paint marks uninhabitable houses; there's still debris piled up in front of some of them. Roofs are gone, upper floors are sagging. Jake's seen pictures of the devastation on the news, in the papers. Even so, he's not quite expecting the wave of grief that goes through him at seeing his city ruined like this. "Didn't realise how bad it still was," Jake says after a moment, catching sight of FEMA trailers down below. 

Georgie looks over at him. "It's getting better," she says. She's quiet for a moment, then she says, "It was bad at first. The No-Majs had it the worst, but even we couldn't keep the flooding at bay. You know we tried." 

Jake does. He remembers the phone calls they'd had last August, how tired and grim Georgie had sounded. The Durants hadn't left Thibodaux, even when the rest of the parish was being evacuated to Houston and other cities through the South. Georgie'd told him they were going to do what they could to keep the town safe. Them and the other magical families like the Fontenots and the Robichaus and the Landreneaus and the Wrights and the Richards and the Bechets. They'd all put their differences aside; they'd all come together to protect their homes and those of the No-Majs around them. 

He should have come home then, Jake thinks. Eddie had, but Jake hadn't been able to do it, hadn't been able to face the destruction, hadn't been able to face his family, if he's honest. He'd sent money to them, given to the relief efforts, checked in when he could. But it was pure cowardice not to be here, Jake knows that, and it shames him. He can't look at Georgie, but the sight of the city tears at his heart. "I'm sorry," Jake says finally. "I should have been here."

"Maybe," Georgie says. The windows are still cracked open a bit; the roar of interstate traffic and the rattle of the engine nearly overpower Georgie's voice. "Maybe not. Wasn't much you could have done, and you've a job up there in New York. Maybe it wasn't your place to come back for this, yeah?" 

Jake doesn't think that's true, really, but he's grateful to his cousin for being kind. He shifts, the cream vinyl seat creaking beneath him. "How's Thibodaux?"

Georgie doesn't answer at first, then she says, "Not the same, but we're fixing things as we can." She looks over at him. Her curls sway slightly in the breeze stirred up by hurtling nearly seventy miles an hour down the road with cars and trucks still passing them as if they're standing fucking still. Jake's grateful for the air, if he's honest. Georgie has a cooling charm on the old pickup, but Jake knows how quickly those wear off in the Louisiana heat and the truck doesn't have air conditioning in the cab. The faint smile Georgie gives him is gentle, more so than Jake thinks he deserves. "It'll look different from what you remember."

"Would have anyway, I think." Jake rubs his thumb along his jeans. He should have worn shorts, he thinks. His fucking balls are sweating in this heat. 

"Probably," Georgie says with a quiet laugh. She changes lanes, taking the exit from I-310 to U.S. 90 towards Lafourche Parish and Thibodaux. Jake's stomach flips. There's so much about his childhood home he's dreading having to face again. "Been a few years since you've been back, though. Eddie stops by now and then."

"Eddie's braver than me." Jake leans his head against the back window of the cab, wincing when Georgie hits a crack in the asphalt and the truck bounces. He's silent for a moment, then he looks over at her. "I went to Oudepoort yesterday." 

Georgie catches her lip between her teeth, worrying it before she says, "Yeah, I heard." At Jake's surprised look, she shrugs. "Daddy mentioned it last night when he stopped by to see Lottie. Uncle Jasper called him. Told him to look after you if you showed up."

Well, that explained why Georgie hadn't been surprised when he'd called her up this morning, Jake thinks. Still he doesn't like the idea that his father'd said that over a prison phone line. Goddamn, it's no wonder Jasper Durant ended up in prison, Jake thinks, a bit bitterly. Fucking man had no fucking common sense. "He shouldn't have done that," Jake says, his voice tight. "It was stupid of him. They track his calls."

His cousin doesn't say anything for a moment, then she glances over at him. "He didn't call from the prison phone," she says after a moment. "Last time Daddy went to see him, he smuggled in a cell, in case he needed it." Her mouth twists down. "I think it's so they can talk about the shit Daddy's supposedly _not_ doing, but whatever. I'm not supposed to know that, I reckon, since he's cleaned up his ways." Georgie rolls her eyes, then glances back at traffic, her polished pink nails tapping against the steering wheel. "Anyway, Daddy says he used that one." She falls silent again. A curl slides free, sticks to the damp curve of her throat. Her thumbnail scrapes across the vinyl steering wheel cover, rubbing at a sticky spot. "You're not here for a social visit, are you, cher?"

Jake doesn't want to answer that, not really, so he just shakes his head, and they fall silent again, the rumble of the tyres against the asphalt the only sound for quite a while. He can't get Georgie involved with what he's doing. She has a life, a daughter. Jake's not willing to risk that for her. Maybe he shouldn't have let her pick him up, he thinks. Maybe he should have slipped into Thibodaux without anyone from his family knowing. Not that he'd have been able to do that, really. And Jake knows if he had, Georgie would never forgive him.

He looks out the window as they cross the narrow stretch of Bayou des Allemands, the water sparkling and shimmering beneath the bridge. Jake remembers Jasper taking him and Eddie out on the Bayou when he was little, steering an aluminium duck boat down the waterway with a charm all the way down to Lake Salvador. Jake had hung over the side of the boat, dipping his hand into the cool water until his daddy had yelled at him, told him not to get his fool self eaten by a gator. A half a mile later they'd seen one, ten feet long and knobbly spined, floating still in the water, watching them as they passed. Jake can still remember the thud of his heart when he'd seen it, can still remember the way he'd jumped when that heavy tail had splashed and the gator had gone after a turtle. Eddie'd laughed his ass off at Jake, but Jasper had just looked at him evenly, told him there were rules to the world around them and Jake had better damn well learn them. _Don't fuck with creatures that can eat you, Jakey-boy. If you're lucky, you'll just lose a hand. If you're not…_ His daddy had just looked back at where the gator had been and shrugged. Jake had gotten the message. Loud and fucking clear. 

He watches the flat green fields roll by. They're twenty miles from the outskirts of New Orleans; it feels a lifetime away. Perhaps it is, in its own way. 

One thing's for fucking certain, Jake thinks, glancing back to the back of the truck where his duffle bags tethered, the USB drive tucked deep inside it. Jake inhales, slow and ragged. He's about to do exactly what his daddy told him not to do. There's a monster floating in the muck around him, and he's going to poke it with the biggest fucking stick he has. Fuck only knows what'll happen to him when he does. 

He looks over at his cousin. Georgie's watching the road in front of them. "Thanks," Jake says quietly, and she just nods. He breathes out. "I'm sorry if this fucks things up for you."

"Will it?" Georgie asks, and her hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Jake hesitates, then says, "Maybe." He sighs, looks out the window again. "I might be pushing my nose into something I shouldn't." Alone, he thinks, and he knows he needs to call Harry again when he gets settled. Or Blaise, his mind whispers, and that's another complicated can of worms, one Jake's not certain he wants to open right now. Not when he's on the edge of losing everything. He glances over at Georgie. "I don't want to get you involved."

"You're family," Georgie says. "You always will be, you asshole." She looks at him, quickly, before turning back to the road in front of them. "I wish you'd fucking remember that, cher. No matter what your daddy might have done; you've still got people in Thibodaux who love you."

Christ, how Jake wishes he could believe that. He nods, his throat tight. "Thanks," he says, and he closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted. 

The miles slip away.

***

Pansy's sat on the floor of her sitting room, file jackets spread around her when the knock comes at her front door. She swears as she clambers up, trying not to spill the papers across the rug. She's spent all morning pouring through the financial documents Blaise has gathered on Yaxley and on her father. There's not much of the latter, if she's honest, but, really, Blaise hadn't had that much time on Friday afternoon before the close of business to put pressure on Gringotts to give everything up. Still, she has the list of account numbers from Daisy's scroll that's she's cross-referencing with what Blaise took from Nicholas sodding Lyndon's office. There hasn't been a match yet, but Pansy's only made it through the first two pages from the box of Wilton Hansford files.

When she opens the door, she shuts it again, immediately, all too aware of her bare face and her unwashed hair twisted up into a knot, her rumpled gym shorts and her faded Harpies t-shirt that still has crumbs of buttered toast on it. "Fuck off," she says, her heart pounding an uneven beat against her chest, but she doesn't walk away like she knows she should. 

"Open the door, Pans," Tony says. "Please?" 

Pansy closes her eyes, leans her forehead against the door jamb. He's supposed to be in New York still, she thinks, not here in Camden, stood on the landing outside her flat. She'd almost been over him, she's certain of that, and she doesn't want to open the door to Tony bloody Goldstein again. "We're not talking, remember?" Her hand is on the doorknob. She tries to pull it away, but she can't. She won't. "What with you being a fucking prat and investigating my family."

Using me to do so, she wants to say, but still she has her pride. What little scraps that might be.

There's a long silence, and Pansy almost thinks he might have gone away, when she hears Tony's quiet sigh, as if he's leaning against the other side of the door jamb. "I'm a tit," he says softly. "But I wish you'd let me in. It's about Daisy, Pans."

And that's the one thing that'll send Pansy's resolve crumbling. She hates that he uses it against her, but she can't stop herself from opening the door, just a crack. Tony looks at her, and he's beautiful still, isn't he, in a crisp white shirt and faded jeans, his hair curling ever so perfectly over his collar. He even smells good, Pansy thinks. All warm and musky, with a hint of cloves. Pansy hasn't even showered today, although thank Circe she'd brushed her teeth when she crawled out of bed. "I'm not sleeping with you," she says, letting her words take on a tart edge, and Tony gives her a crooked smile. 

"Wasn't assuming you would." He waits until she opens the door a little more. "May I come in?"

She ought to say no, but it's Daisy, isn't it? Pansy can't let that pass. "I'm not going to stop you," she says after a moment, and she steps back, letting Tony come in. She crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly aware she's not wearing a bra. "Why aren't you in New York?"

Tony looks back at her. The sun from the bay window in the sitting room catches his hair, makes the bits of gold in his sandy brown curls shine. He's tall and broad-shouldered, his hips narrow in his jeans, and Pansy can feel her body respond to his. She hates herself for it. 

"Well?" Pansy asks, and her voice is too sharp, too shrewish for her own liking. She turns her back to the sitting room, hoping he doesn't notice the spread of file jackets. She knows that's an impossibility, particularly when his gaze flicks past her, before sliding back to her face. Pansy feels her cheeks heat. "That's none of your business, Tony."

"Probably not." Tony leans against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He glances at her, his gaze sliding up and down her body. "You look well."

"I look a fright," Pansy says. "I wasn't expecting company." Her mobile rings from the sitting room; she ignores it, letting it go to voicemail. Whatever it is can wait. "So. New York threw you out?"

Tony folds his arms across his chest; she wonders if it's an unconscious mirroring of her own pose. "Things are going down, Pans," he says, and he looks away, catching his lip between his teeth. "Your flat's clear, yeah?"

And that throws Pansy for a loop. "You think someone's listening?"

"I wouldn't put it past them," Tony murmurs, and he pulls his wand out. "Hold on a moment." And then he's gone, walking into her bedroom, then the bath, then back out into the hall again before disappearing into the kitchen. When he's back, he turns, holding his wand out to each of the corners of the sitting room, whispering a charm beneath his breath, his face tight in concentration. It's enough to make Pansy uneasy. He drops his arm, sheathes his wand and looks back at her. "Nothing that I could find."

"Who do you think would bug my flat, you wanker?" Pansy follows Tony into the sitting room. She grabs her wand from the coffee table and flicks it towards the piles of file jackets, sending them soaring back into the boxes stacked beneath her telly as Tony drops down onto the white leather sofa. 

Tony looks up at her. "The Department of Mysteries, for one," he says flatly. "Shit's falling apart over there, and Croaker's on a bloody warpath." Pansy sinks into one of the armchairs, a chill going through her at the expression on his face. Tony rubs his hand over his jaw, glances away, his mouth drawn down at the corners. "And MACUSA--well. Best not to talk about that yet. Fuck only knows how it's all going to fall out." He looks back at Pansy. "I'm back here because Croaker wants a report on Eustace tomorrow morning." He stops, then sighs. "And on where the fuck we are in tracing Daisy and her little rich boytoy."

"And where might that be?" Pansy asks, almost afraid to know. 

For a moment, Tony's quiet, his hands folded between his knees, then he looks over at her and says, "I'm fairly certain Daisy's in Cuba with Godunov." He rubs his thumb over one of his knuckles. "But I'm not going to share that information with Saul Croaker."

Pansy stills, just looking at him. "Oh," she says, and Tony meets her gaze. 

"I think it's better for Daisy to be kept out of Croaker's reach," Tony says, his voice quiet. "With everything that's happening... " He trails off. 

"Tell me she's not in danger, Tony," Pansy whispers. Her whole body tenses, feels as if she's stretched too thin. She catches the hem of her t-shirt, twists it between her fingertips. "Tell me she's not going to be hurt."

A long silence stretches out between them. Through the open window, Pansy can hear the rumble of traffic, the laughter of diners sitting al fresco at the cafe two doors down, the rustle of the leaves in the tree just outside, the steady thud of a bassline from some street performance. The usual, comforting sounds of Camden. Pansy suddenly wants to see her mother. The thought's so unexpected that it takes her breath away. 

"She's fine right now," Tony says after a moment. "She's safe, or as safe as she can be. Godunov has his contacts and the funds to keep them out of danger for the nonce." He looks up at Pansy. "I've kept McGillicuddy and Grimsditch out of the loop on this one. They don't know I've found her. No one does but you."

Pansy nods slowly. "When are you going to tell them?" She lets her t-shirt slip from her fingers. "Will she know--"

"I'm not going to tell them, Pansy." Tony looks down at his clasped hands. "Look, I know you think I'm a monster. And I've fucked up with you. With everyone, really." He sighs. "Eva filed the paperwork for our divorce." He glances up at Pansy. "I'm not contesting any of it, much to Mother's dismay." 

And Pansy doesn't know what to say to that. "I'm sorry," she manages, but Tony gives her a faint smile. 

"You're not," he says, "but you don't need to be." He's quiet, then he exhales. "I don't trust Saul Croaker at the moment, whether or not he's related to your mother. You shouldn't either. And there's no fucking way I'm going to hand over any information about Daisy to him. It goes to you, Pans, and you can decide what to do with it. MACUSA doesn't have it. The Ministry doesn't have it. At least for now. It doesn't mean they can't track her movements themselves, but they're not getting it from me." He looks up at her, his face fierce. "I promise you that."

Pansy just sits back in the armchair, watching him. "Why?" she asks finally, and Tony shrugs. 

"She's your sister," he says. "And I'm not certain she's acting wrongly, to be honest."

"What do you mean?" Pansy's brow furrows. "Tony, I know my father's in bed with dangerous men. I'm not an idiot." She hesitates, uncertain if she should ask, but knowing she has to. "You've been watching my father for years. I need to know…" She trails off, breathes out. She closes her eyes, then says, barely able to get the words out, "Is my father a Death Eater?"

Tony's silent, and Pansy can hear the thud of her heart in the quiet of the room. She opens her eyes, meets his gaze. "Please," she says. "I need the truth."

"He's not," Tony says, his voice careful, quiet. "I've never uncovered anything that made me think your father was in their ranks."

And Pansy's shoulders sag, a relief filling her body. "Oh thank Circe," she murmurs. "Mother would…" She stops. She's not certain what her mother would do. Not any longer. Besides, Tony's not quite looking at her now, and she knows he's hiding something. She recognises the way his gaze is sliding away. "What?"

Tony stills. He looks like a perfect photograph, Pansy thinks, strong and silent, an elegant man sprawled in the corner of her sofa as if he's been captured for a feature in Witch Weekly. And then he looks at her, and she knows. She can see it in his eyes. 

"He's been funding them," Pansy says slowly.

"Something like that," Tony says. He rubs his palm against his denim-clad knee, and Pansy wants to rage at him, wants to throw herself at him, kicking and screaming and telling him he should never have told her any of this. He should never have come to her doorstep; he should never have laid it in her lap like this. She doesn't want to know any of it; she doesn't want to know what her father's done; she doesn't want to know where Daisy is. She doesn't want to be her family's keeper, her family's judge. She can't do this, Pansy thinks, wildly, feeling as if she's going to shatter at the slightest touch. 

Tony's watching her carefully. "Pansy," he says. "It's not like that--"

"Not like what?" Pansy asks, her voice tight and high. "My father's been giving Aldric Yaxley money. I have account numbers that I expect to be able to trace back to funds Yaxley's invested in, Tony. I have to face what my father is--just like Draco had to face Lucius--"

"Pansy," Tony says sharply, and he grabs her hand. She tries to pull away; he holds it tighter. Her mother's going to kill her, she thinks, or she'll kill her father, and Pansy doesn't know which is worse, not really. Not any longer. "I think your father's trying to undermine them."

And Pansy stills. Looks at Tony. His fingers are curled around hers still, warm and strong. 

"I don't know for certain," Tony says, and he doesn't look away from her. It's almost as if he knows she couldn't bear it if he did. "I've just…" He exhales, looks down at their clasped hands. "I've found some anomalies in my investigation," Tony says after a moment. "I can't promise you that's what they mean, and I really need to fucking talk to your idiot sister. But I _think_ they knew what Eustace was up to. And I _think_ they were trying to set a trap for it all."

Pansy stares at him. "And then we got in the way."

"Yes," Tony says. "We took Eustace down before they could. Or at least before your sister could."

"Fuck," Pansy whispers, and she presses her knuckles to her mouth. "I need to talk to my father--"

Tony's already shaking his head. "Absolutely not. It's only a hypothesis, Pans. I don't have enough proof, and even if I did, you're related to him. You can't be involved in this, and you know it. It's a conflict of interest--"

A knock at the door cuts him off. 

"I thought you weren't expecting anyone," Tony says. 

Pansy shakes her head. "I wasn't." She pushes herself out of the chair as the knock comes again, this time more insistent. "Stay here."

She strides to the door, throws it open to find a startled Althea standing on her doorstep, her fist raised to knock again. "Oh," Pansy says, and she blinks as Althea drops her hand to her side. 

"Right," Althea says, obviously a bit surprised herself. "Sorry, it's just you didn't answer your mobile, so I thought I'd Apparate over."

Pansy leans against the edge of the door. "Because you thought something was wrong?" She's a bit taken aback by that, and a bit chuffed as well, if she's honest with herself. "You might have rung me again."

Althea's angular face flushes. Her dark hair's pulled back in a ponytail today, as if she'd just grabbed it and twisted it back without a good brushing, and her button-down shirt and jeans are a bit slap-dash, as if she's just thrown them on. She's not even tucked in her shirttails, and Pansy thinks that's the first time she's seen Althea like this, so untidy, so flustered. "It's not that," Althea says after a moment. "I told the guv I'd ring you and Zabini, and I've already talked to him. There's a meeting in twenty minutes in Robards' office. The guv expects us all there."

"Since when?" Pansy hasn't heard about any of this. "It wasn't on the schedule--"

"Just came up," Althea says, and she steps past Pansy into the flat. "The guv isn't certain what it's for either, but we're all to be there with bells on." She turns towards the sitting room. "Oh." Her eyes narrow. "Goldstein."

Tony stands up. "Sergeant Whitaker."

Pansy pushes her flat door closed with a soft thud, feeling oddly out of sorts. "Well, at least there's no need to introduce the two of you," she says sharply, and they both look over at her. Pansy scowls. "Tony's not here for personal reasons," she says to Althea. "He has news about my family." Her gaze shifts to Tony. "You might as well tell her. She already knows most of it all, anyway. And I suppose I need to dress for the Head Auror, so if you'll both excuse me…" Pansy throws up her hands and turns on her heel, striding into her bedroom. 

Honestly, she doesn't like any of this, and there's something unsettling about Tony and Althea both being in her flat, about them facing off with each other. Perhaps it's just her, Pansy thinks, as she jerks clothes from her wardrobe, throwing them on the bed. How awkward is it to have two people you're bloody attracted to in the same room--

And Pansy stops, her underwear drawer still half open, a lacy black bra in her hand. She stares at herself in the mirror above her dresser, then she sits on the edge of her bed. "Oh, fuck," she whispers. She's bloody well attracted to Althea, isn't she? Her gaze flicks back to the reflection of her face. "I might want to shag her?" 

It's not something Pansy's thought of before. She feels a right tit, really. All the signs were there. The way she wanted to be near her, the way she noticed Althea's body, the way she'd been so annoyed when Padma Patil had leaned too close to Althea. 

"Bloody sodding bollocks," Pansy says to herself, her bra slipping from her fingers. "I fancy Althea Whitaker. I've never fancied a girl before." Her eyes are wide in the mirror, her face pale. But it's not as if she doesn't want a tumble with Tony too, and that's what's confusing her, to be honest. It's not as if Pansy isn't proud of being a bit of a slag. She always has been, and she hasn't ever given a damn before. But this is Tony. And Althea. And _fuck._ Pansy buries her face in her hands. 

Somehow, she thinks, this ought to be more of a crisis, oughtn't it? She should be horrified that she wants to pull Althea into her bed. For fuck's sake, she's nearly twenty-six years old, and you might have thought she'd have had her gay discovery long before that. She'd shared a dormitory with Millicent after all. And Pansy's really quite certain she's never fancied a girl before. But it's Althea, and when Pansy closes her eyes and thinks of kissing her, it's not awful. At all. In fact, it makes her pulse flutter, makes her nipples tighten. She cups her breasts in her hands, her eyes opening as she shifts her legs. Oh, definitely something there too. Fuck. 

"No," she says firmly to her reflection. "Pansy Iphigenia Rahel Parkinson, you have no bloody business wanting to shag your sergeant. You're not Draco. You're not even Blaise for that matter. You're the sensible one." For a moment, she expects her reflection to laugh at her, and she sighs. "All right, the one who knows better than to get involved with someone you work with. Let's not put the whole mess with Tony on the table." Except she can't not. The thought of Tony touching her makes her tremble as well. Pansy falls back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Oh buggery fucking fuck," she whispers. "Why can't there be Jewish nunneries? I'd hie myself to one right now like the Bard suggested." 

But she wouldn't, and she knows it. She runs her hands over her face. Her fingers are shaking, but Pansy knows she has to put this aside, knows she has to pull herself together. So she breathes out, counts to ten, takes all these feelings that have broken loose like bloody Pandora's mess and she shoves them back into the hidden part of her heart. She'll deal with them all later, the way she's done before when it comes to Tony. This isn't something she hasn't done before, she reminds herself as she sits up. 

Pansy reaches down, picks up her bra from the floor. She dresses slowly, putting on fitted trousers and a black silk shirt, and she twists her hair up into a neater knot before smoothing a bit of powder across her face and a quick smear of pink lippie over her mouth. It's not perfect, but it'll do, and she slides her feet into simple flats before she opens her door and steps back out into the flat. 

Tony and Althea are sat on the sofa, their heads bent together. They look up when Pansy walks in, and Althea's face is grim and drawn. 

"You're not telling anyone any of this," Althea says. "Not even the guv, or Malfoy, or Zabini. Understand?"

Pansy frowns at her. "Why wouldn't--"

"Because Goldstein and I are going to handle it." Althea stands, as does Tony. She looks over at him, and he nods. "You're going to stay out of it, and until we know what's going on with your family, it'll be the two of us looking into it all."

And Pansy looks between them. They're nearly of a height, both Althea and Tony, and Pansy recognises the same stubborn expression on their faces. "You're both mad," she says. "If the higher-ups find out--"

"We'll deal with that if it happens," Tony says, a bit gruffly. "Whitaker and I are in agreement on this one, Pans."

"The guv already knows about the accounts," Pansy says to Althea. "You can't hide that."

Althea shoves her hands in her pockets. "Then I'll ask to take it over." The look she gives Pansy is even. "It'll help me pass information back through Goldstein."

Pansy doesn't know what to say. She just looks at them, something warm and uncertain shivering through her. And then she reaches out, tucks her arms beneath each one's elbow. "You're complete fools, you realise," she says, "but thank you."

She's lucky, Pansy thinks, as Althea and Tony exchange a curt, tight nod, and she's so very grateful for both of them.

And that tiny little voice inside her that's insisting it'll all be blown apart soon enough, that she'll lose them both as lovers or friends, can sod off for all she cares. _Que sera sera,_ after all. And really, nothing matters but Daisy's welfare. Pansy's feelings? Well, it's not as if she hasn't lived through a broken heart before. 

She bloody well can again.

***

The long halls of Auror headquarters are empty as Draco and Harry make their way through the tangled warren of corridors and cubicles to Gawain Robards' office, their boots sinking into the soft carpets. Although it's Sunday evening, Draco thinks they ought to have encountered at least someone working on a project on deadline, but they haven't seen a single person besides the weekend porter when they stepped out of the lift, not even in the bullpen. Surely there's someone hidden away somewhere, Draco thinks. The Auror force doesn't just stop policing on the weekend. Then again, Draco realises as his stomach growls, most of them are probably down in the commissary at this hour. The summons from Robards had arrived as they had been about to sit down for an early dinner. Kreacher'd spent the afternoon roasting a joint of beef and some carrots and small potatoes to try and cheer up the gloomy household, and the wizened house elf had thrown a teapot across the dining room when Harry'd said they had to go immediately before they'd even taken their chairs. To be honest, Draco hadn't blamed Kreacher in the slightest. The poor bastard had even made Harry's favourite treacle tart, after all.

And now Harry's silent at Draco's side and really, he's been that way all day, since the article this morning. It'd been worse after Granger and Weasley'd left; Harry'd at least made the attempt to be sociable whilst they were there. Once they'd Floo'd off, Harry'd gone upstairs to take a bath, and when Draco'd tried to tempt him into bed again, he hadn't been interested. Frankly, the day Harry Potter's not up for a shag...well. It worries Draco. Draco's tried to give Harry his space since, but Harry's unusually quiet, broody demeanour is beginning to surpass worry and make Draco fret. Harry's promised he'll go see his Mind Healer this week, and call her first thing in the morning even, but Draco doesn't know if that's in the cards now. Merlin only knows what Robards will have waiting for them. 

Draco lets his fingertips brush the back of Harry's hand. "All right?" he asks, and Harry glances over at him, tries to give him a faint smile. 

"I'm fine," Harry says, but Draco's not so certain he is. Still he nods, and lets his shoulder bump Harry's ever so gently, to let Harry know he's here, that he cares. 

The heavy wooden door to Robards' office is ajar, and Draco's relieved, in a way, that Robards' secretary, Viola, isn't at her customary post. He adores Viola, but she has a wicked tongue and a sharp eye. He's certain she'd have had something to say about Draco coming in with Harry on a weekend. Bad enough that the weekend porter gave them a shirty glance when he saw them together. Viola would have put two and two together; Draco's certain of that. Then again, he supposes it's possible they'd been in the incident room before coming to Robards. Barely.

"Finally, you bastards." Gawain Robards voice booms out as Draco hesitates on the threshold. "Get your arses in here."

"You heard the man," Harry says, pushing the door wider from behind Draco, his breath warm against Draco's cheek, and Draco's the first one into the office, Harry close on his heels.

Draco ducks his head reflexively, much to Robards' obvious amusement. "Good evening, sir," he says, walking towards the left-hand side of Robards' wide, gleaming desk to sit near one of the windows looking down on the Atrium. He still wonders what the fuck is up, but he also knows he can't be the one to ask. He's not an Auror any longer after all, and Harry's the guv. Draco drops into his chosen chair, crossing one leg over the other, and looks at the window at the fountain of Magical Brethren below.

Harry clasps Robards' hand as the Head Auror stands, leaning over his desk. "Sorry, Gawain. It took us a little while to get ready." Draco snorts, and Harry gives him a warning look. Draco leans back in his chair. Evidently china-wielding house elves aren't a good enough excuse for tardiness, it seems. Harry looks back over at Robards. "We came as soon as we could." 

"No worries, lad. You're here now." Robards sizes Harry up, his gaze softening as he takes in Harry's rumpled clothes and sallow face. He reaches over and pats Harry's arm."You all right after that rot in the _Prophet?_ Planning to set something else on fire, are you?"

To Draco's relief, Harry shoots back a wan, but still cheeky grin. "Not unless you want me to do more paperwork," Harry says. "I'd be happy to set a few file jackets alight in that case."

"Well, that'd be a bloody improvement, all things considered," Draco mutters under his breath, but if Harry hears, he doesn't look over.

Robards lets go of Harry's arm and turns to seat himself heavily in his large, padded chair. "It's nothing but bollocks. They're fishing for trouble. Let's see to it that they don't catch anything." His eyes flick over to Draco at the window, and Draco looks away. He knows what Robards' opinion of him must be. _Trouble._ Unfortunately, Harry's up to his neck in it, and if they find out about Draco, well, no use worrying about that at the moment, given everything else, but that possibility does keep Draco up at night.

Harry takes the chair beside Draco. "I thought Cuffe was supposed to be keeping me out of the _Prophet,_ " he says, eyeing Robards, and the Head Auror frowns. 

"Cuffe's a right prick," Robards says, his voice unhappy. He scratches at his jaw as he shifts in his chair. "I tried to firecall today, give him a bollocking, but he wouldn't pick up. The bastard knows he's pushed a boundary, but I'll be having words with him eventually, never you fear, lad."

Draco wishes he believed that, but he's not so certain the Head Auror has the influence he once did. Not with everything that's going on in government lately. It worries Draco that Marchbanks is being supported by the paper of record for the wizarding community. In his experience, that's never a good sign. Particularly not if her position's being supported by Saul Croaker for his own political gain. And that's what makes Draco the most unsettled. He doesn't know where all the stakes are now, doesn't know what to expect from the various corners. Things had been cut and dried, for the most part, until Kingsley had infuriated Croaker, and the man's a bloody wild card with way too much access to everyone's secrets. 

Including Draco's, he's certain.

Draco's heart leaps when he sees Pansy's dark topknot and pink lipstick in the door, Althea a step or two behind her. "Mind if we join you?" Pansy asks, and she gives Draco a warm smile from across the room. He's missed Pans, he thinks. It's been good to be back in the incident room with them all, but Draco wants a night out with his friends, a boozy, gossipy evening in which they tell him what a complete wanker he's being for worrying so much. It's been too long since they've had a full Slytherin dinner, with Mills and Theo and Greg as well, and Draco thinks it's time to rectify that if he can. He still has his flat, after all, and it wouldn't be terrible for Weasley to take Harry away for a weekend, ply him with firewhisky and Cannons tickets. Draco makes a mental note to firecall Weasley about that; he's certain the man won't disagree.

Robards motions Pansy and Althea in, and Harry shoves his chair nearer to Draco's to make more room. The two women settle into their chairs, Pansy eyeing Draco carefully. "All right there, guv?" she asks quietly, her gaze flicking over to Harry. "Bit of a shit mention in the paper today."

Harry gives her a tight smile. "I'm fine, thanks. Nothing I haven't handled before." 

Pansy doesn't look convinced; she glances past Harry, over at Draco, her eyebrow going up. Draco gives her a quick nod in Harry's direction, to indicate that he can't talk openly, and then mouths _later._

The quick motion of her head, and roll of her eyes lets him know that she won't say anything else in front of Althea, but that they'll talk when they can. Draco settles himself back in his chair. It's such a relief to have Pansy here; he gets so bloody tired of spelling things out for Harry sometimes, when he and Pansy can have reams of conversation in a few, pointed gestures.

A moment later Blaise ambles in, his face drawn as though he's not had enough sleep. Pansy frowns at him. 

"Have you been here all weekend?" she asks, her brows drawing together, and Blaise shrugs, rubs his face. 

"Not all of it," Blaise says, which they all know means he's only gone home to sleep. He's in a thick grey cardigan, so Draco's certain he's been working in the file room in the subbasement beneath the Wizengamot courtrooms, which is brutally cold, even in summer. Blaise sits down on Althea's other side, with a nod to everyone except Robards, whom he ignores. Robards eyes him sideways, and there's a curious, almost sad frown on his face before he turns away, swallowing. And that's bloody odd, Draco thinks. He glances at Pansy; from the way mouth's pursed as she studies Blaise, he's certain she's picked up on whatever that was as well. Draco makes a note to figure it all out when he has a moment. It really has been too bloody long since they've had a chance to talk properly, the three of them, and Draco's getting tired of missing his oldest friends more than he should. He worries briefly that Harry and Jake've put a wall between him and Blaise with all this idiotic relationship drama, then dismisses the idea. It's more that they haven't had time than anything else. Isn't it?

"Seven-Four-Alpha's here, with the exception of Jake Durant," Harry says to Robards, stating the sodding obvious the way he's wont to do sometimes. Draco's not certain if he finds it charming or exasperating. Probably a mixture of both, if he's honest. He realises he's gazing at Harry, and his face heats. He looks away, folding his hands in his lap as Harry says, "Should we get started?"

"In a moment." Robards leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He frowns. "We've one more plus a visitor still to join us."

Blaise perks up at that, straightening in his chair and brushing lint and paper dust off of the grey sleeves of his cardi. Draco wants to roll his eyes, but he can't. It'd be ridiculously hypocritical of him, he thinks. Still, he's fairly certain Durant's not going to walk through that door, whatever Blaise might hope. The man's only just left for New York two days ago, after all. 

When Granger comes in with Tom Graves beside her, of all people, Draco can't help his double-take. He'd never have expected the Director of Magical Security for MACUSA to be the visitor joining them. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, like they always do when something strange is afoot. He looks over at Harry, who's frowning, his ankle crossed over his knee, his neck craned back to study Graves as Blaise looks around Granger, trying to see, perhaps, if someone's in the hall behind them.

"Durant's not here," Tom Graves' voice is gruff, almost abrasive. He meets Blaise's surprised look evenly. "Surprised he didn't tell you where he was." 

Blaise clears his throat, his face falling. "I wasn't…" He trails off, sitting back in his chair. He looks chagrined, Draco thinks, and well he should, really. Draco wonders exactly what Graves knows about Durant and Blaise, and that makes Draco uncomfortable, remembering that conversation he'd had in Graves' office before they'd left for New York, the subtle threats Graves had made about his relationship with Harry. 

Harry stirs at Draco's side. "I got a voicemail from Jake last night." That makes Blaise flinch; he darts a quick, vicious look Harry's way, but Harry doesn't notice, of course. Instead, he leans forward, looking over at Robards. "I left one for him, but I haven't heard back yet." Graves looks over to him, then past to Draco for a moment. Draco keeps his gaze steady. Unafraid. He's not going to show fear to this bastard. Of that he's bloody certain. Harry looks back over at Graves. "Does you being here have something to do with that?" His voice isn't exactly polite. Or politic, Draco thinks. 

Graves' smile is thin and tight. "Might have."

Draco's watching Blaise, who's royally narked off at the moment. He steps on Harry's foot surreptitiously, and Harry frowns over at him. "What?" Harry asks, under his breath, and Draco lets his gaze slide past Harry to Blaise, who looks about a hair away from losing his temper beyond repair, and that's never a good thing with the higher-ups in the room. Harry follows his glance. "Oh." Harry leans back in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He eyes Draco and whispers, "It's not my fault he called me."

"Just shut it." Draco scowls at Harry. Honestly, he seems determined to make this a thing, and Draco just doesn't have it in him to deal with any of this at the moment. 

Granger and Graves settle themselves in the chairs to the side of Robards' desk against the wall, both of them looking a bit grim. 

Althea glances at them, then back at Robards. "What's this about sir? It must be pretty serious if you've called us in on a Sunday evening." 

"Well, not to mention that the Director of Magical Security for Magical Congress of the United States of America is here." Blaise's drawl is low and fierce. He's furious, Draco's certain. Althea raises an eyebrow in his direction, but seems otherwise unruffled. Draco figures she's been on the team long enough to be impervious to Blaise's moods.

Robards shifts in his seat. "Tom?" He glances over at Graves with a sigh. "This is your meeting, after all." And that's a surprise, isn't it? Draco's eyes narrow as he looks at Graves. The prickling on the nape of his neck is back. Whatever this is can't be good.

Tom Graves leans forward in his chair, spreading his hands in front of him. He looks worn out. A bit beaten down. "Long story short, the United States magical government is going into crisis. I've talked to Jake earlier today and had a conversation about some of the issues at stake." His gaze sweeps over all of them. "We have proof that Aldric Yaxley's infiltrated the presidential office and is exerting some form of control over Samuel Quahog."

The entire room's silent. Granger's face doesn't shift; Draco's certain she's already heard this from Graves. 

"Imperius?" Harry asks after a moment, and Graves shakes his head. 

"More likely financial influence." Graves hesitates. "Or some other sort of non-magical control. We are talking about Yaxley, after all." His jaw tightens. "From what we can tell he wants to fill the government with individuals sympathetic to him."

"Death Eaters?" Pansy's voice is tight. She doesn't look Draco's way. 

Graves rubs his fingers against the back of his hand. "No confirmation on that yet. But possibly."

"Fucking hell," Harry murmurs, leaning forward, and Draco concurs. His stomach roils; he feels as if he might sick up.

"I'm here," Graves says after a moment, "because I don't trust anyone in the fucking whole of MACUSA except Jake Durant, and Jake Durant trusts you fuckers." He rests his hands on his knees and takes a deep breath. "He's asked for your help, and I'd like it as well."

Blaise is studying Graves, his face impassive. "Doing what?"

"There's an artefact that he's trying to find," Graves says. "Seems like our esteemed President Quahog might be interested in it as well, and given his connections to Yaxley, we'd rather him not get his hands on it, if you understand." 

"Seems we do," Harry says, and he eyes Graves for a moment. "This is what Jake rang me about, yeah?"

Graves shrugs, leans back in his chair. "Seems likely." He's quiet for a moment, then he says, "Jake's gone back to Thibodaux to find it."

"Louisiana?" Althea asks, and Granger looks over and nods briefly. Oh, that's bad, Draco thinks, watching Blaise's face harden. If Granger knew where Durant was before Blaise...fuck. He can practically feel the fury roiling through his best friend, see the tightness in Blaise's shoulders.

Graves waits for a moment, then reaches in to his inner jacket pocket, pulling out an official-looking roll of paper with a seal. He passes it to Harry, who takes it with a curious expression on his face. Draco peers over Harry's shoulder as Harry unrolls it. The parchment's filled with legal language and there's a thick wax seal at the bottom. Harry looks back up at Graves. "These are orders for investigative work."

"Smart man." Graves' face twists; he looks grim. "I've asked for you to go because Jake needs you. But as I've mentioned to Gawain, the fuck of it is that you can't enter the country magically this time." He looks at them, and Draco can see how tired he is, can feel the waves of exhaustion rolling off Graves' shoulders. "You're going to have to use Muggle transport. It'll be harder to trace, which means it'll take longer for my successor to realise any of you are in the country."

"Your successor?" Harry asks, his brows drawing together in the surprise they all feel.

Graves' face shutters. Draco can barely read him now, save for the aura of compressed fury and resignation surrounding his thoughts. "Yes. I fully expect to be relieved of my post tomorrow morning New York time. My wife's already been fired from Quahog's staff." His mouth's a thin, tight line. "This is the last thing I can do for you. Whatever's going on here, whatever we're all onto, Yaxley wants it shut down." He hesitates, then adds, "Jake already knows this will probably lose him his job. Maybe more." 

Draco can hear Blaise's sharp intake of breath. He wants to reach out to Blaise, to catch his hand, tell him everything will be all right. But he's not certain it will. Not any longer. 

"So." Graves' gaze flicks towards Blaise, then back at Harry. "I can't promise any of you protection. Not once you hit our shores. But..." He gestures to the scroll in Harry's hands. "That's official MACUSA permission giving you the authority to conduct an investigation. I've done my best to hide it as well as I can in our system, so they won't find it immediately. It'll give you a legal ground to operate in the country, at least in the beginning. If it's revoked…" He holds up his hands. "You could end up in Oudepoort."

They're all silent. Draco can feel the thump of his pulse, the twist of anxiety in his stomach. 

"And when we're done?" Harry asks quietly, the papers tight in his hand.

It takes Graves a moment to answer. "I can't get you out of the country--I'll be a civilian by then." He eyes Robards. "It'll be this man's responsibility. Could be as simple as using Muggle transit again, unless they close the borders to you."

"We'll handle it," Robards says with a significant look to Graves. "All right, Seven-Four-Alpha, any questions?" He lets his gaze trail across each one of them. "I can't force you into this assignment. It's dangerous, but I think you've all figured that out by now. If any of you want to sit this one out, I'd understand. I think we all would."

"With all due respect, sir," Blaise begins, and Draco braces mentally. Blaise draws in a shaky breath. "I'm not about to leave Jake Durant out there on his own. If he asked for us, I'm there."

"As am I," Althea says, and Draco nods. 

"Me too." Draco reaches over, touches Harry's arm. "With our fearless leader, I'm certain."

Harry's mouth quirks up on one side. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Nor would I, to be honest," Pansy says, and Harry frowns at her. 

"You haven't been in the field that much," Harry says, and Draco knows he's worried. He can feel it shift across Harry's skin as he leans forward again, looking at Robards. "Permission to let Parkinson's stay here, sir. She's our lab rat, and she can continue her work on British soil."

"Fuck off, guv," Pansy closes her arms over her chest. "If the rest of you lot go, so do I." Her face is mutinous, and Draco knows Harry doesn't stand a bloody chance. "I'm not just a fucking lab rat, thanks. I went through the same bloody training all of you did, so if you even think of saying I'm not capable--" She breaks off when Althea puts a hand on her arm, and yeah, Draco's also not thinking about that too closely. They're in enough trouble as it is.

Harry clears his throat. "I wasn't," he says. "It's just you're worth a lot to us in the lab."

Pansy's mouth tightens. "I can be worth a hell of a lot to you in the field and you fucking know it." She meets Harry's gaze evenly. Angrily. "Don't you dare bench me. Besides, you utter knob, I was the one who took down Selwyn back in May, so you can kiss my bloody arse with this sexist shit about me being unable to handle myself in the field." She sits back in her chair. "Goddamned wanker."

Robards' eyebrow goes up. "Constable," he says, warningly. "Careful."

"Well, he fucking is," Pansy says, her eyes narrowed at the Head Auror. "Sir."

A faint smile curves Harry's mouth. "All right. You've made your point. Lab rat or not, you're in."

"Damn right." Pansy folds her arms across her chest. Draco wants to cheer her, but he doesn't dare. He at least knows his place. Still, his gaze slides over to Granger, who's looking incredibly amused. 

"Well done," Granger says with a wink Pansy's way. She leans in. "Besides given that Parkinson's sister's probably mixed up in this too, she might be useful."

An odd look crosses Pansy's face, and Draco thinks she might protest. Instead, she only says, "There's that as well," before she falls silent. 

As do they all for a moment, the uncertainty of what they're being asked to take on settling across the room.

Draco bites his lip. "What are we expected to do there?" It's what they're all wondering, even Harry. Draco's certain of that. 

"Jake Durant will have all of that information for you." Graves pauses, as if he wants to say more, and then he shakes his head. "That's all I can say for now." He stands, looks down at Granger. "I really have to go," he says to her. "I've been away longer than I meant to, and if they notice…" He tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves. "There's only so much my wife can cover me for. I'm trying to last through tomorrow morning. For all your sakes."

Granger stands as well. "I'll take you back to the Portkey," she says. She has the same look on her face that Draco'd seen this morning. Furious worry, mixed with a huge dash of uncertainty. She doesn't like any of this any more than the rest of them do, he realises. 

"Does Croaker know about this?" Draco asks, and Granger looks at him. Her mouth tightens just a bit. 

"I don't know," Granger says, and he knows she's telling him the truth. "He might, but it wouldn't be from me." She exhales, and she folds her arms over her chest the way she does when she's unsettled. "I'd like to keep this under his radar, just in case. If Gawain doesn't mind."

Robards snorts. "As if I would."

Granger nods. "Right. Thank you." She looks back at Harry. "Give me ten minutes or so. We'll need to go over details before you leave."

And then she's gone, Graves with her, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud. No one says anything for a long moment, not until Robards sighs. "Thank you for agreeing to this." He looks up at them. "All of you."

"This is bad, isn't it?" Blaise asks, and for the first time he meets Robards' gaze. 

Robards just nods. "It won't be easy." He's silent, then he says, "Yaxley and his lot are dangerous, but I reckon you all know that." 

"More than you'd think," Althea says, her voice barely a whisper.

Draco reaches over and takes Harry's hand. Harry's fingers curl around his, warm and tight and solid. "We can handle it, sir," Draco says after a moment, and he glances up at Robards, with more bravado than he feels. 

The Head Auror nods, a small smile crossing his weathered face. "I think maybe you can, Malfoy." He leans back in his chair. "All of you."

Draco wishes he were as certain, but he doesn't look away. He has to believe they can make it through whatever's coming their way. 

The other option is entirely unthinkable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The next installment should be out on February 4.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the members of Seven-Four-Alpha arrive in Thibodaux, Jake sees a ghost, and Draco and Blaise need a hell of a lot more firewhisky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! It's come to this, and I'm so excited you're all still reading! This chapter jumps across the pond again--this time to Lafourche Parish, Louisiana, to be precise--and it gives us a bit more backstory on Jacob Bouvier Durant and his kin. (If you're having trouble following the complexity of some of the Durant family relationships, we'll try to put up a family tree with the next installment.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for your passion for this story--it has carried me through nearly a year of writing in this universe and I am so grateful for all of you. Many thanks also to sassy-cissa for continuing to deliver after a very hard week and to noe for cheerleading and helping build and smooth the plot. I'm really looking forward to your thoughts on this new setting--we've been so many places together, dear readers, and this one is very different again!

Blaise leans his head against the window of the minicab, watching the flat Louisiana landscape roll past in a rush of green foliage and bright blue sky. It's sweltering outside--he can feel the heat of the sun through the thick glass--but the aircon in the cab is cold enough to make him shiver and wish he had a jumper to slip into. 

The luggage shifts in the compartment behind him; the cab driver had been surprised that the six of them had such small bags when he'd loaded them in at the airport. The guv had just smiled politely and said something about a short work visit. Really, Blaise can only hope. There's something tight and unhappy in the pit of his stomach, something he can't quite explain, but he doesn't want to be here, and he doesn't know why. A premonition maybe. 

Or his mother's reaction when he'd rung her last night to say he'd be out of the country for a bit. It breaks protocol to do so, he knows, but things have been tense enough between him and Olivia the past few weeks that Blaise had thought he at least owed his mother an explanation for his silence if she tried to be in touch. 

He doesn't know why he'd told her they were going to Louisiana. It would have been easy to lie and say Boston or even New York. His mother had just gone quiet for a long moment, to the point that Blaise had almost thought she'd rung off. And then she'd sighed, deep and heavy, and made him promise he'd be careful, please. There'd been something unhappy in her voice, something off, but when he'd pressed her, she'd just said she worried about him sometimes, what with this ridiculous job of his, and Blaise knows that's true. Still, he can't shake the feeling that she'd meant something else. 

Potter'll be annoyed with him if he finds out Blaise told Olivia where they were headed, and with good cause, Blaise'll admit. They've spent time and money trying to cover their tracks as best they can from the Americans as well as Saul Croaker, flying into Boston last night out of Heathrow, then buying tickets early this morning for New Orleans, using Potter's Muggle credit card that even Draco'd been surprised he has. The guv has secrets of his own, Blaise thinks, and he looks over Potter and Draco in the bench seat in front of him, their heads bent together, one dark, one silver-gilt, as they talk, their voices low. Blaise envies them. Even when they're trying to be discreet, the relationship between them is obvious. All it takes is that small smile Draco gives the guv, or the way Potter looks over at Draco, his face soft. That's what a mate should be, really, Blaise thinks. Not this uncomfortable one-sided pull he has towards Jake. 

The cab hits a pothole in the road, and Pansy jolts beside Blaise before relaxing back into sleep, her head on Althea's shoulder. Althea's dozing as well; they're all exhausted from travelling, really, although Pansy'd taken a calming potion before stepping on both flights. She doesn't do well with Muggle transit, not really. It unsettles her more than she'll admit, particularly flying. Pansy loathes brooms, says they make her feel as if her stomach's coming out her throat; aeroplanes aren't much better. It's the motion, Blaise suspects, plus Pansy's fear of heights. 

Her fingers are curled tightly around her phone, as if she's expecting a call from someone, and that makes Blaise frown. There's only one person Pansy's ever been that attached to, and fuck but Blaise hopes Goldstein's not back in the picture again. It's not that Tony's been the worst bloke Pansy's ever dated, but he has been the most complicated, and Pans doesn't need distractions like that right now. Not when she's just started pulling herself together after Goldstein fucked her over in New York.

Draco looks back at Blaise. "All right?" he asks softly, and Blaise shrugs. He catches the cab driver's look in the rearview mirror, those dark, bright eyes finding Blaise's gaze for just a moment. He doesn't care for how interested the man's been any time they talk. It makes him uneasy, what with all the subterfuge they've gone through to keep their heads down since last night. And really, Blaise knows he's being ridiculous, paranoid even. The likelihood their minicab driver's going to be a plant by MACUSA or Yaxley's lot is miniscule at best, whatever his interest in them might be. Perhaps it's just the foreign accents, but this is bloody New Orleans. Blaise can't imagine he hasn't encountered other Brits here on holiday, particularly during Mardi Gras. He leans back in his seat with a sigh, cursing himself silently for being a fool.

"I'm fine." Blaise catches the guv's glance before Potter looks away, suddenly fiddling with the latch on the seatbelt. He's trying to give them a modicum of privacy, Blaise suspects. It's oddly charming in its own way. 

The look Draco gives him is careful, thoughtful. "Only you're here on Durant's home turf and that has to feel odd."

Like you've no bloody idea, Blaise thinks, and he wonders again if he should confess to Draco, if he should take him out for a drink and say those words Blaise is barely allowing to cross his own mind, even with Jake miles away. _He's my mate, Jake is._ Draco would understand what that meant. They've talked about the possibility before, late at night and with an empty bottle or two of wine lying between them. Draco knows Blaise has never thought he'd find one. Never wanted one, really. The irony that now he has a sodding mate and it's Potter's ex isn't lost on Blaise. 

He looks over at the guv without answering Draco. "Have you ever been here?" he asks, and Potter looks back at him. Blaise can feel the guv's uneasiness, just as he feels the sharpness of his fingers as they dig into the upholstery of the seat, hears the rustle of feathers in his pulse. He rolls his shoulders, trying to calm the Veela's jealousy, all too aware of Draco's curious gaze on him. 

"No," Potter says with a shrug. "Jake kept Thibodaux private, for the most part. He didn't like talking about it that much." 

The Veela settles back, and Blaise lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding. He looks out the window of the minicab, watching the strip of grey road slide past. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the glance between Draco and the guv, the quick, subtle shake of Draco's head as he tucks his hair behind his ear with one long, graceful hand. 

Blaise knows Draco's watching him, even as the guv turns back around. He doesn't know what to say, so he leans back against the window and closes his eyes, pretending to rest as the wheels of the cab rush along the road, carrying them closer to Thibodaux and Jake. Blaise won't admit he's worried, that he hasn't a clue what to expect, that he's not entirely certain where he and Jake stand right now, all things considered. And that makes him half-want to Apparate back to the fucking airport and take the next flight out of this hot and humid swamp back to London and the world he knows, the world he's familiar with, comfortable around. 

The thought of that makes his skin prickle, though, makes his pulse pound. He can't run away from whatever this is. He's in far too deep now, Blaise knows that, and it fucking terrifies him, wakes him up in the middle of the night, his throat tight and raw, his chest aching. The more he keeps Jake at bay, the worse it is, and Blaise can't ignore that any longer. His body craves Jake's; he only feels like himself now when Jake's nearby. How fucked up can that be? He opens his eyes, stares at the reflection of his face in the window, wants to curse himself, but he's not that idiotic. 

Low buildings break through the treeline, grey-shingled peaks that puncture the bright greens of the leaves. Another quarter-hour and the trees give way to detached houses, mostly brick and one-storey, set back just a bit from the road itself on wide patches of mown grass, nearly as green as the foliage around them. Some have boards on the windows, others have parts of their roof missing, There's piles of debris around most of them, pieces of the houses themselves along with broken tree limbs, disintegrating plasterboard, and mounds of dirt. Blaise remembers Jake talking about the hurricane that had come through last August, nearly a year ago now. Still, the houses feel strange to Blaise, so unlike the terraced houses he's familiar with in London or the manor homes he's stayed at in the countryside. There's something intrinsically American about them in a way Blaise doesn't think he can describe, and he watches in interest as they slide past, each one tucked beneath the shade of an oak tree or three. And then the trees lessen, moving further back from the edge of the road, replaced by businesses, like a market or an auto parts shop or a restaurant. 

Blaise is surprised by the number of pickups in the car parks, some of them larger than the cars on either side of them. There's a break in the buildings, and the trees are back, thick and lush and vibrant against the blue sky. Adverts line billboards on the side of the road, bright splashes of colour that Blaise barely focusses on as they drive past. He can't quite reconcile this boring bit of Americana with Jake; it doesn't seem likely that a place that seems to lack magic like this could produce someone as powerful as Jake Durant. 

The minicab turns onto another road, and the houses change into older ones, two storeys now but smaller somehow, some brick, some clapboard, most with deep, shadowed porches that a man could hide from the sun beneath. Like the other buildings, these still bear the marks of the storm; some show water marks on their paint, others have stoops or roofs that are sagging or missing or half-repaired. The front gardens are filled with debris as well, some of it sifted into piles at the edges, some of it filling most of the space, hiding what's left of the grass. Still other houses are half-gone, the wooden frames blown apart by the storm winds, and Blaise can't imagine how terrifying that must have been to be here, to see that happening around you. 

Some houses look almost pristine. Blaise wonders if those belong to the magical families, if they'd managed to ward their homes in time. Others buildings have markings painted on them, arrows and circles and lines that make no sense to Blaise, but must to the people who live here. They pass a house that has _one body inside_ clearly scrawled across the boarded-up door, a large X beneath it. A child's tricycle lies in the yard, rusted and surrounded by debris from the destroyed roof, and Blaise has to look away, his throat tightening. 

And then the minicab slows, stops in front of a three-storey building on the corner of two streets, white brick with a gleaming black wrought iron balcony stretching around the first floor on three sides of the building. Tall, paned windows line the ground floor, and the front door's painted a bright crimson. There are still remnants of the storm marking the building; one of the top panes on a side window is covered with plywood, and there are arrows spray-painted in black on one wall, pointing down the side street, along with another paint stripe that Blaise is certain shows the high water mark from the flooding. It's nearly at his waist height, he thinks, and the white brick beneath it is stained and crumbling in places. The roof's covered in a bright blue tarp; one of the corners flaps up, stirred by a faint breeze that ruffles the leaves on the tree across the road.

"The Acadian Hotel," the driver says in his thick, slow accent as he puts the cab in park, opening his door. "Where you want to go, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he's heading to the back of the minicab to free their luggage. 

Draco glances back over his shoulder. "Ready for this?"

Blaise just rolls his eyes as he nudges Pansy, waking her. "Out," he says to her, and Althea unfolds her long legs and unbuckles her seat belt, sliding out of the door after Draco and the guv. 

Pansy rubs at her face; her hair's a mess and her lipstick's gone. "Fuck," she says, then she blinks at Blaise. "We're here? That didn't seem that long of a drive." 

"You slept most of the way," Blaise points out, but he reaches out and smoothes the back of her hair down, a wave of affection roiling through him. Sometimes he still wonders if he ought to have gone for Pans when she wanted him, if maybe their friendship could have withstood the tumult of a relationship between them. Maybe she might have ended up his mate, he thinks, but even he knows that's not likely. He loves Pans, but not like that. It never would have been that way.

"Thanks, love." Pansy yawns, then follows Althea, her black silk shirt riding up in the back just enough for Blaise to catch a glimpse of pale skin and knobby spine over the waistband of her jeans.

Blaise takes an unsteady breath, his hand on the edge of the seat in front of him. Jake's inside, waiting for them. He can feel it, and that's unsettling in its own way. He tries to tell himself it's just that he knows Jake arranged for their rooms so it only makes sense he'd meet them here, but it's not just that. Blaise can _feel_ Jake. It's a faint movement in the back of his mind, a shiver that goes down the nape of his neck. It hadn't been like that in London, not really, and Blaise doesn't know why it's like that here. 

Until he steps foot on the pavement, feeling the jolt of Thibodaux beneath his shoe. Oh, he thinks, his eyes widening, and when he looks at the others, he knows they feel it too, despite the heat pressing down on them, sending a sheen of sweat across their skin. The magic thrums through the earth, making the hairs on Blaise's arms rise ever so slightly. It's an old magic, but a young one too, and Blaise has felt this in England in places where the Muggles haven't muffled it with brick and stone and cement. It surprises him here, and it takes a moment for him to adjust to the feeling of being ever so slightly off-kilter. And then he breathes out, lets the magic run through him, and it settles into the steady pulse of his body, leaving behind a faint thrill. 

"Fuck," Althea whispers, and Blaise wants to laugh, wants to let the joy of it bubble up in him. How the hell did Jake leave this behind, he wonders. Blaise doesn't think he ever could, not it if was part of his bone, part of his blood. 

The driver sets the bags down on the pavement with a thud. He looks uneasy, and Blaise wonders what the magic must do to the Muggles, whether they can feel it deep inside of them. He watches as Potter peels Muggle greenbacks from the thick roll he's carried in his pocket, handing them over to the driver as the others reach for their bags. Just as Blaise hefts his satchel up over his shoulder, the driver catches his arm, draws him aside. 

"You be careful, yeah?" The driver's wide, brown face, lighter than Blaise's, is sober, worried, and he looks Blaise up and down, his mouth a thin line, his thick brows drawn together. "Most folk in these parts are decent, but some of 'em can be downright bad, and you just keep an eye out, son, all right?" His gaze drifts over to the others, then back to him, and Blaise knows what he's saying, what he's worried about. He's faced this in parts of Muggle London, and magical too, in places where his brown skin isn't welcome. But he knows it's different here, perhaps more so than back home even, and he's grateful for the warning. Blaise touches the driver's arm, suddenly realising why the man had been watching him during the drive. He's a black man with a posh Mayfair accent surrounded by white Brits in rural Louisiana. He's going to stick out, going to be noticeable, and whilst that might work in his favour at moments, it also means there's a good chance of attracting attention he'd rather not have. He glances back at the rest of Seven-Four-Alpha. They haven't considered this, he knows, and it irks him for a brief moment that a complete stranger is more concerned about his physical safety than his own friends might be. 

"I'll be careful," Blaise says and he brushes his fingers against the concealed wand in the pocket of his trousers. The driver nods before he steps back, pocketing the money Potter'd handed over. 

A burst of cool air comes through the door when Potter opens it, and that's a relief. Blaise runs a palm over his head, his wiry, close-cropped hair already dampening with sweat. He needs a hat to break this sun, he thinks, but he's grateful he's not Draco, whose cheeks are blotched and sweat-streaked, as is the nape of his neck, from just the bit of heat they'd been exposed to on the pavement. 

"Cooling charms, old man," Blaise murmurs as he walks past Draco. "Learn them, use them." Draco flips two fingers Blaise's way. 

It takes Blaise's eyes a moment to adjust to the shift in light inside the lobby. He blinks, squinting. The interior of the hotel is freshly painted pale grey walls and new, plush burgundy rugs over dark wooden floors scratched badly by the silt in the floodwaters. It's a Muggle hotel--No-Maj the Yanks call them, Blaise reminds himself--and the electric chandeliers hanging from the ceiling are dim, most of the light coming from the tall windows that look out on the street and the scrap metal business across the way. That's a bit incongruous, Blaise thinks, with the scuffed elegance of the hotel lobby, and the overstuffed velvet sofas scattered around the room, obviously not long out of the showroom. A round table's centred beneath the main chandelier, and it's been cleaned, but there are still scratches across it, deep gouges in the wood, the varnish worn off in places. An enormous vase of roses and lilies is sat on top of it, big enough even to impress Blaise's mother. 

"Hey." Jake's standing up from one of those sofas, a blonde, plump woman at his side. She's pretty, Blaise thinks, her golden curls piled up on top of her head, her blue floral dress sleeveless and short, the light fabric swirling around her hips as she walks over, a step or two behind Jake, her fingers gripping the large bag hooked over her shoulder. She gives them a curious look, her gaze lingering on each one of them, and Blaise thinks she's nervous, at least a bit. 

"Jake." Potter takes the hand Jake's holding out, squeezes it quickly before stepping back. Blaise looks at Jake; Jake gives him a small smile. He's worried. Blaise can feel it rolling off him, mixed with a bit of frustration and tension. He wants to ask what's wrong, but then his gaze slips back to the woman behind Jake and he holds his tongue. The guv clears his throat. "So you want to fill us in on what's going on?"

The woman touches Jake's elbow. "Dane's said we could use the dining room." Her voice is a soft and slow drawl, almost melodious, the way Jake's is. She glances back at the lobby desk; a tall, scrawny boy's behind it, his head bent over a newspaper, his brown hair falling over his forehead. He can't be more than seventeen, eighteen, Blaise thinks. His shoulders are still narrow and sloped; his stubbled jaw's still soft, boyish, his cheeks scarred by spots. 

"Right." Jake quirks his fingers at them and heads over to an open doorway. They all follow him into a room filled with tables covered in white cloths, silver salt and pepper shakers and a vase with a single small rosebud sat in the middle of each. There's a mark on the rose damask wallpaper, around the centre of the wall on all four sides, and the wallpaper's darker beneath it, stained by the dirt and floodwaters. Jake closes the door behind them, and turns back, running a hand through his hair. "Thanks for coming." 

Blaise lets his gaze drift down Jake's long body. He's wearing jeans, the hems pulled down over heavy work boots, the type Blaise has never seen Jake wear before, and instead of a proper shirt, he's in a grey heathered t-shirt, stretched tight across his broad shoulders, the v-neck deep enough when he turns back around for Blaise to get a glimpse of familiar dark gold hair across his muscled chest. He crosses his arms, and Blaise swallows, looks away from the untucked hem of Jake's t-shirt that hangs loose around his narrow hips, looks away from the curve of Jake's strong biceps. He can feel his body responding to Jake's scent, that musky lemongrass sweetness of his cologne that Blaise wants to breathe in, wants to wrap around his senses. 

"You know about Tom?" Jake asks, and Potter nods. Jake walks over a window, looks out with a frown before turning back to them. "I heard two hours ago that he's been officially replaced by Mike Wilkinson." The furrow deepens between his brows. "Mike's an asshole, a real hardballer. Smart and sharp, but he's got a mean streak in him a mile wide, and if Quahog's put him in Tom's position, then we're fucked. The minute he figures out what we're doing, he's going to come after us, and it won't be pretty." Jake glances at Blaise, then his gaze slides back to the guv. "You have an exit strategy?"

Potter nods. "Hermione gave me an emergency Portkey the Unspeakables use. A special one."

"It'll open up a portal," Draco says, his face impassive. "For about twenty seconds. It should be enough time for all of us to go through, but we'll have to be together the moment it opens, so we need a way to be in touch if we're separated."

"I've got that covered." Jake looks over at the woman. "This is Georgie Durant. My cousin." His face softens a bit. "She's insisted on helping us."

"Because you're a damn idiot who's going to step his foot in the wrong family feud if you're not careful." Georgie's smile is wry. She steps forward, setting her bag on a table and opening it. She pulls out mobiles, handing them to each of them. Her fingers are cool and soft when she gives Blaise his, and her gaze lingers on him for a long moment. Blaise wonders if Jake's said anything to her about them, but that'd be ridiculous if he had. Wouldn't it? "Burner phones," Georgie says. "Bought 'em from a family friend, so they're not easily traceable."

Althea turns her mobile over in her hand. "I'm guessing your friend's not in law enforcement."

"Doesn't particularly like Aurors," Georgie says. She studies Althea for a moment, then says, "You're Whitaker, right?" Althea looks up at her sharply, and Georgie smiles, a soft but oddly sharp curve of her pink lips that reminds Blaise of Pansy and Millicent combined. "Jake gave me a primer." She looks at Pansy. "You're Parkinson, he's Malfoy, and I've heard enough about Harry over the years to recognise him, even if Jake refused to bring him home." There's an odd, awkward silence, and Blaise feels the Veela rustle inside of him, despite the guv's flushed face and Draco's scowl. Georgie turns to Blaise. "And you," she says, softly, her eyes curious and bright, "you have to be Jake's Blaise." 

And that answers that question, doesn't it? Blaise looks at Jake; he doesn't glance away. It takes a moment or two, but the Veela settles, and Blaise can breathe again, his skin feeling hot and tight. He looks away, his stomach fluttering. 

"We have our own mobiles," Pansy says, breaking the odd silence. "Why should we--"

"Turn your phones off." Jake's voice is firm, brooking no argument. "Right now."

Potter already has his in his hand, open, his thumb pressing the power button. "You think they'll track us with them."

Jake shrugs. "It's a possibility. Less so for you than for me, maybe, but there's no sense in pushing our luck. Those phones Georgie just gave you have her number and my new one programmed into them. And they're warded to slow down any tracking spells." His smile's grim. "My Uncle Rufus knows useful people."

"So what are we here for, really?" Pansy asks, and she drops her British phone back in her satchel. "Your boss--well, former boss, I suppose--wasn't exactly forthcoming yesterday."

It worries Blaise when Jake exchanges a long glance with his cousin. He sighs, then pulls a chair out from one of the tables and sits. The rest of them follow, almost hesitantly. 

"Hell if I know," Jake says finally. "There's something Quahog wants that my father knows about, which means Yaxley must be looking for it, but Jasper's a fuckhead and didn't really give me anything to go on except here." He looks around the room. "So yeah. It's an artefact and someone in my goddamn family has to know something about it." He runs a hand through his hair again, and Blaise can feel his frustration. "And given the Robichaus keep coming up over and over again, I reckon it has to be something my mama's family knows about."

"Except if Uncle Jasper does too," Georgie says, "then there's no way my daddy doesn't, but he's about as fuckheaded as Jake's daddy, so…" She shrugs. "Reckon we're going to need to talk to him today."

Jake nods. "Sorry about that." 

Georgie shrugs, but she doesn't look happy. "I told you I'd help, Jakey, and if that means sitting down with Rufus, then I'll help y'all do it." She looks over at Pansy, thoughtfully. "But I want Parkinson to go with me. She's got nice tits, and Daddy always does appreciate a good rack."

Pansy blinks, then says, "Thank you, I think?" But there's a faint smile curving her lips, and Blaise knows she's not offended. Not entirely, at least. 

"Fuck, no," Althea says, her voice sharp, and she turns to Potter. "Guv, you can't make Pansy flaunt…" She stops, throwing her hands up in the air. "That's ridiculously sexist."

"Oh, honey." Georgie's face is sympathetic. "That's the whole point of it. Daddy's a sexist asshole, and a fucking dick, to boot, and he hates Aurors even more than that friend of his we got those phones from, so if we don't want him to slam the door flat in our faces with the first question you ask in that lovely little accent of yours, this one--" She points towards Pansy. "Is going to have to flash a little boob. I hate it as much as you do, and it gets my feminist ire up, but do you want answers or not?"

Pansy puts her hand on Althea's arm. "It's all right," she says softly. "You can come with us if you want."

Althea's mouth is tight, but she nods, and Blaise catches the look of fury on her face when she glances away. 

"That's not a bad idea," Jake says. "Harry and I can go see the Robichaus." His gaze shifts to Blaise. "Maybe you could go with Georgie's group, and Malfoy can come with us."

Blaise stills, his face set, a twist of hurt going through him. "Fine," he manages to say, ignoring the look Draco casts his way, and then he feels the brush of Jake's touch against his mind.

 _It's difficult,_ Jake whispers. _You and me, here…_

And Blaise slams his mind shut, pushing Jake out as he looks away. Pansy's watching him, as is Draco, and he knows they can tell he's upset, so he straightens his shoulder, widens his eyes. "If we're going to head out, I at least want a place I can wash up a bit. We have been travelling for hours, after all."

He knows he's hurt Jake, but he doesn't care. Not at the moment. Blaise feels angry, rejected, and it's taking everything he has not to lash out in front of everyone. 

Jake nods slowly, and then he pulls room keys out of his pocket, tiny bits of carved metal that hang from brass key rings engraved with their room numbers. He hands them out; Blaise tries not to pull away when Jake holds his key out and their fingers brush. "Three rooms," he says. "I figured Malfoy and Harry'd want one, and Blaise and I…' He trails off, not looking at Blaise. The awkward silence in the room grows, stretches out until Jake adds, "If you want to switch with Whitaker, I can share with her."

For a moment, Blaise considers it, at least until Pansy snorts and snaps, "The hell you will." Her gaze finds Blaise's, holds it for a long moment, and then she looks over at Georgie. "Can you give us fifteen minutes or so?" Georgie nods, and Pansy hefts her satchel over her shoulder. "Come on, Althea," she says, and she walks off, towards the closed door. 

Althea hesitates, glancing back at the guv who just shrugs at her, and then she's following Pansy, almost eagerly, Blaise thinks, like a leggy greyhound trailing after her person. He wonders if he looks like that with Jake, and he hopes not, he hopes he can keep himself in check, let his interest be less noticeable. But really Blaise knows he's no better than Althea. Not when it comes to his-- He won't let himself think the word, not here with Jake in the room with him. He can't; he's too afraid that Jake might pick up on it, that he might know how much control he has over Blaise's heart.

"I'll wait down here for you," Georgie's saying to Jake, and she's not looking at Blaise. "See if Dane knows anything else that might be useful."

Draco touches Blaise's arm lightly as he passes. "Talk to him," he murmurs, and then he's walking out with the guv at his side, their heads bent together. Blaise tries to fight back the surge of envy at their closeness, at the way Draco and Potter just fit together, so easily, so simply, and Blaise wants that so badly he can bloody well taste it. 

Or perhaps that's just the Veela again.

Georgie's murmuring something to Jake as Blaise settles his satchel against his side, turning the room key between his fingers. _215_ is engraved on the oval tag, and he looks over at Jake. "I'm going upstairs," he says, and he doesn't wait for Jake's answer. 

The staircase to the first floor--second in the States, Blaise remembers--curves ever so slightly to the left, the dark wood banister gleaming against the white balusters. The wall's been repainted recently, the plasterboard replaced. And Blaise thinks he feels the lingering remnants of magical construction, the faint fizz of wards against his fingertips as he trails them along the wall. He can smell the faint scent of mould lingering beneath the new construction. The worn steps creak beneath his feet, and he can see the water damage beneath the scratched dark stain of the boards, the way they're ever so slightly warped beneath his boot. He wonders what it must have been like, watching the floodwater rise, hearing the howl of the wind and the rain outside. Even the _Prophet_ had reported on the aftermath; Orla Quirke had done a feature on magical communities working alongside the Muggles to repair the homes they could. Blaise frowns as he walks up the staircase. That'd been before Orla'd decided to throw her lot in with those idiots going after Draco and his family. He'd met her once, a few years back, at a party Theo'd invited him to. Even thought about asking her out. Blaise had found Orla amusing and pretty, and they'd had a good evening together, but there'd been something a bit too sharp about her that had kept him from taking her home, from firecalling her up and asking her to dinner. He's glad now that he hadn't. 

Room 215 is at the end of the hall, just down from the room Blaise sees Potter and Draco going into. He fumbles with the key, before managing to get it into the lock, and when he turns it, the door swings open with a soft squeak of the hinges. 

The room's decent enough. Large and tidy and there's a bath near the doorway. What surprises Blaise are the two beds, though, and his jaw tightens as he lets his satchel fall off his shoulder, landing with a thump at his feet. He walks over to the tall French doors on the other side of the room, pushes the lace curtains aside. The long balcony's out there, looking out over the scrap metal yard, and Blaise opens the door, steps out onto it. The heat hits him immediately, and he almost staggers beneath the heaviness of the air around him. 

Blaise leans against the wrought iron railing. He wonders why he's here, wonders if it wouldn't have been better for him to stay in London, working on the financials of this all, or maybe even in Boston, tracking down Yaxley's accounts. But he knows why he got on that plane this morning. Jake fucking Durant, that's why. 

He hears the door open back in the room, hears the heavy tread of work boots against the wooden floor, and then Jake's behind him, coming up to rest his arms on the railing next to Blaise's. 

"You all right?" Jake asks.

Blaise doesn't answer for a moment. "Mostly," he says finally. He looks up at the overhanging roof above them, the boards painted a pale blue. "What's the deal with that?"

Jake follows his gaze. "Haint blue," he says. "Most of the porch roofs are painted that colour down here. People say it keeps the spirits away from the house. They think it's the sky and they rise up instead of walking in."

"Think it works?" Blaise looks over at Jake, and Jake shrugs. 

"Might." Jake shifts, sighs. "We're a superstitious folk, but sometimes we're not wrong, so who knows."

Blaise falls silent. He wishes he had a cigarette right now, not that he smokes that frequently, but there's something about standing here with Jake that makes him want one in his fingers. He curls them over the railing instead, and he looks out over the street below them. "So this is Thibodaux," Blaise says after a moment.

"Shithole, yeah?" Jake looks over at him, and Blaise shrugs. 

"Not half as bad as Croyden," Blaise says, his voice light, and he unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling the white cotton up his forearms. Jake watches him, quiet and still. "There's quite a bit of magic here, though." Blaise can still feel it, prickling across his skin with the heat. 

Jake looks away. Sighs. His hands dangle over the edge of the railing. The silence stretches out between them, and then Jake breaks it, saying, "It's at a crossroads, Thibodaux. Ley lines, I mean, although there's an actual crossroads as well, among other things. Magic's strong around the bayous here, always has been, and that's been good for our sort most of the time." He hesitates, rubs his thumb along a rusted bit of the railing that was missed in the repainting. "It also makes things a bit more problematic, riles the No-Majs up sometimes when the magic gets a bit wonky." He looks over at Blaise. "They can feel it, even if they don't know what it is. People around here say something's gone under their skin when they're feeling out of sorts, but it's usually the magic. Georgie's mother is a nurse, and she tries to keep the No-Majs settled when they get worked up. Does a lot of calming charms on them when she needs to."

"Does it work?" Blaise hates that he's curious. He's still annoyed with Jake, wants to shove him away. Except he doesn't, and he knows that. So he stays still, his gaze fixed on the street below. He watches a young, dark-skinned girl walk down the pavement, sandals slapping against the concrete, her hair braided and pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. Her legs are long in pink shorts, her pink and white striped t-shirt matches perfectly. She has a shopping bag in one hand, an open book in the other, and she sidesteps a wide broken stretch of the pavement without looking up from what she's reading. He wonders if she's magical. He hopes so.

Jake follows his gaze. "Mostly," he says, and then he's quiet again. The girl turns the corner, disappears out of view, and the street's empty once more. Neither of them say anything, and then Blaise pushes back, the heat too much to take. He walks back into the room, grateful for the feel of the aircon on his skin. He walks into the bath, turns the water on in the sink and washes his face off, splashing water across his hair as he does. He dries off with the soft towel folded on the marble counter, and he looks at himself in the mirror. His shirt's wilted, but there's nothing much he can do about that other than cast an ironing charm to knock the wrinkles out. He undoes another button; the August heat trumps decorum here, he realises. Jake's smart to wear a t-shirt. He takes in the puffiness around his eyes, the faint hint of dark circles from lack of sleep and the spidery redness from the dry air on the plane. Olivia would be horrified, he thinks, but right now he can't be arsed to care. His eyes feel like sandpaper; he needs some bloody eye cream and good hydration.

When he steps back into the room, Jake's sat on the edge of one of the beds, the French doors closed. Jake looks up at him; Blaise walks over to his satchel and rummages in it, pulling out the small tube of Galénic Ophycée his mother had sent him from Paris in the spring. He pumps out a dab, pats it along both eyes, closing them for a moment. They burn, but the lotion feels good against his skin. When he opens them again, Jake's looking over at him, his face drawn. He's a bit sunburnt, Blaise realises; Jake's nose is pink, as is his chin, and Blaise wonders what he's been doing for that to happen. Blaise sighs, then sits on the bed across from Jake. 

"Two beds," Blaise says, trying to keep his voice light. 

Jake just meets his gaze. "All of them are like that," he says after a moment. "I thought it'd be smarter, all things considered." 

Blaise doesn't know what to say. He looks away, his hands clasped in his lap. 

"I know you're angry at me," Jake says after a moment. "The whole putting you with Georgie--"

"It's fine." Blaise's voice is a bit sharper than he'd like. 

Jake exhales. His palms are flat against the white bedspread; his thick fingers are splayed wide. "Look," he says, and he doesn't glance up at Blaise. "Things are different around here than they are in New York, or London, or New Orleans even. This is rural Louisiana, Blaise, and as much as we have a magical community here, this place…" He trails off for a moment, and Blaise can't help but look over at him, at the way his face is contorted, as if in a bad memory. Jake worries his lip between his teeth, and then he says, "The gay thing. It's not something that flies well here with some people, if I'm honest. There are folks who don't give a fuck what you do in bed, or who you're doing it with as long as it's a consenting adult, but others…well. Some people are afraid of it." _Afraid of me_ , Blaise hears in the whispers of his mind, and his heart twists. Jake glance up. "Even the magical folk are mostly Catholic," he says, "and they try to understand, but they don't always, not really. My family mostly tries to ignore my being gay, now except for some of the younger cousins like Georgie who really don't give a shit, but Georgie had a baby out of wedlock, so she's been through it herself, all that quiet and not-so-quiet judgment." He stops, then adds, "Although she never got the shit beat out of her for liking dick." 

That makes Blaise tense. "Who?"

"No one who matters now." Jake rubs his thumb across the bedspread. "It's hard for people like us, and I didn't want to make it more obvious with a single bed."

And something cracks deep inside of Blaise. He gets up, sits on the other bed beside Jake. "All right," he says, and he lets his fingers slide through Jake's. "That makes sense."

"Yeah." Jake gives him a weak smile. "Tell me I'm a coward."

Blaise snorts. "You're sensible. I'd rather not be obvious about us either, not if it's going to hurt you." He eyes Jake. "Were you raised Catholic?" It surprises him he's never really asked, but then again, they haven't had many of those sorts of conversations lately, have they?"

"Yeah." Jake's fingers curl around Blaise's, and Blaise studies their paleness against his skin, takes in the trimmed edges of Jake's nails. There's a hangnail that Jake needs to clip, and his cuticles are terrible, but that's for another day. Blaise rubs his thumb over Jakes thumb, stroking lightly. Jake looks over at him. "Mama's family's tres Catholic. The Fontenots had the priest to dinner sometimes, which is ironic, given that the Church would be the first to condemn them for their abilities. But around here, the No-Majs look the other way when it comes to magic. Pretend it doesn't exist until they need it." He drags the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, then adds, "The Durants are on the parish register, but they're more a Christmas and Easter sort of family, if that even. To be honest, I'm not certain Rufus has stepped foot in a church since Lottie was christened."

"Lottie?" Blaise gives Jake a curious look. 

Jake laughs, softly. "Georgie's little girl. Looks like she'll be off to Ilvermorny in the next year or two. Rufus adores her, which makes Georgie nervous. She's about as fond of her daddy sometimes as I am of mine." He glances at Blaise. "I'm not really a churchgoer."

"Unsurprisingly," Blaise says, and Jake's smile crooks up on one side.

"Hard to be sometimes." Jake's voice is wistful, though, and Blaise looks over at him. He can feel the sadness in Jake, the way it's mixed together with a deeper grief. "Sometimes did like going with Mama, though," Jake says softly, and his fingers tighten around Blaise's. "Back when I was little."

They sit quietly together, shoulder to shoulder, and Blaise breathes in the nearness of Jake, lets it settle over him, calming the roil of the Veela inside of him. Blaise knows they have to go downstairs, knows that Jake’s cousin will be waiting for them, as will the others, and if they take too long, there'll be talk. But he needs this moment, needs to feel Jake with him, needs to know he's near. 

"You need to be careful around here," Jake says after a moment. He glances over at Blaise, his face serious. "Promise me that."

"I'm always careful." Blaise eyes him. "Is this about me being black?"

Jake flinches a bit, but he doesn't look away. "Yeah," he says. Blaise catches the way Jake's jaw clenches, the way a muscle jumps in his cheek. "The magical community around Thibodaux's safe enough for the most part. It's not perfect, and there are people I'd cross the street to stay away from. But we've lived together for long enough, the white families and the black and the Native American. We've got Creoles and Cajuns and Anglos, and we've even married one another over the years, miscegenation laws be fucked. I'm not saying folks don't see race, because that'd be stupid of me, but for most of us, it's more about magical ability than skin colour. But it's not always like that for the No-Maj world. That thing I told you about the ley lines making people crazy?"

Blaise nods, and he remembers the worried warning the driver had given him just fifteen, twenty minutes ago. "Brings up resentments then," he says. "Hatreds."

"Stupid ones." Jake shifts on the bed, closer to Blaise, his knee pressed against Blaise's. "This was sugar cane country, and there were slaves and after that there were injustices against people who weren't white, and this land around here is stained with blood, stained with evil. It's fed some of the magic, corrupted it in ways, and I hate to say some families like my daddy's have used that." Jake's face is troubled. "There was an uprising of the sugar workers in 1887. Left probably three hundred of them dead, wounded or missing." He looks over at Blaise. "They weren't white. And that's the thing. It's never been the whites who were hurt around here, has it?"

Blaise is quiet for a long moment. "I know," he says finally, "that you're trying to protect me, and that's kind of you. But Jake, I'm a black man." He gives him a faint smile. "I'm a black, bisexual man. England isn't some sort of paradise for me either. There are places in London I avoid because of the Muggles. Names I've been called. Threats I've faced. I was fortunate enough to be at Hogwarts for part of my life, where those sorts of things weren't tolerated, where my friends didn't really care about anything other than whether or not I was in Slytherin." He pauses, pulls away from Jake, then stands, walking across the room to look out the French door again. Blaise thinks of the pink-striped girl, wonders what her life is like here. Wonders what it must have been like for Jake to grow up in Thibodaux, to be raised around things like that. He looks back over at Jake. 

"Everyone," Blaise says, "thinks the wizarding world is better than that, thinks we've moved passed such things, but when I'd go over to the Manor during hols, I saw the look on Lucius Malfoy's face when Draco wasn't watching. If it hadn't been for my mother's money, I wouldn't have been good enough to be friends with his son because my skin was too dark. I've had to be friendlier than I'd like in the force, go out for drinks with the other constables to prove I'm one of them, to make them feel comfortable. When they look at me, the first thing they see is a black man, and I know it. I can see it in their eyes." He walks back towards Jake. "But you didn't. When we first met, you didn't look at me the way they did." His voice catches in the back of his throat. He stops in front of Jake, between Jake's spread knees, and he looks down at him. "You saw me."

Jake just looks up at him, and Blaise lets his fingertips brush across Jake's jaw. "I'm sorry," Jake whispers. "I'm so sorry you've faced that."

Blaise's thumb slides over Jake's mouth. "I can take care of myself, Jake Durant," he says. "I want you to understand that. I've needed to sometimes. All right?" 

"All right," Jake says, and Blaise leans down, his lips following his thumb, catching Jake's mouth, kissing it softly over and over again until Jake's reaching for him, pulling him down onto the bed with him. Blaise's body slides over Jake's, pressing into him, pushing him into the mattress as he kisses Jake, claims him, makes Jake's hips buck up against his. He catches Jake's hands, pull them up over Jake's head, his fingers tight against them, pressing them into the mattress. Jake's beneath him, breathless, his mouth wet and swollen, his blue eyes bright as he looks up at Blaise. 

"Goddamn," Jake says, and Blaise is kissing him again, rutting up against him, his prick swollen in his trousers. He wants to get off, wants to take Jake here, to bury himself in Jake's body until Jake is gasping, begging for Blaise to fuck him. 

And then Blaise stills, breathes out, his hands sliding off Jake's wrists onto the bedspread. He's shaking, and he's feeling things he never thought he would, a swirl of emotions that he doesn't know how to name, except for the one that keeps rising to the surface each time he looks down at Jake's open, gentle face. 

Love.

Blaise shudders, closes his eyes, as he rolls off Jake. He tries to push the thought away, that realisation of how he feels about Jake, of how madly he loves him. He's never loved anyone. Not like this, and it terrifies him even more than the thought of Jake being his mate. 

And Jake wants to protect him. Blaise doesn't know what to do with that, doesn't know what to do with the fact that Jake understands him in ways his friends, as much as he loves them, don't. 

Blaise sits up, shifts to the edge of the bed. He feels the mattress move behind him, feels Jake slide his arm around him, pulling him closer. They sit silently for a long moment, and then Jake rests his chin on Blaise's shoulder, breathing out. 

"You okay?" Jake asks. 

Honestly, Blaise doesn't know if he is, so he just shrugs. 

Jake's arm slides away, and Blaise wants to stop him, wants to tell Jake to stay, but he holds himself back. Jake moves off the bed, and then he's in front of Blaise, squatting on his heels, his hands catching Blaise's. He looks up at him. "I don't know what it's like," he says after a moment, "grow up black and bisexual in England, or even here, but I know what it's like to be a gay boy growing up in Thibodaux, Louisiana, and it was fucking rough, man. I still have a hell of a lot of scars from that, and it'll always part of me, and I wish somebody had protected me. My mama tried, in her own way, but hell, my own brother still calls me Pichouette as a nickname." He looks away, and Blaise wants to reach out, to touch Jake's face, turn it back towards him. Jake's jaw works for a moment, and then he says, "I know you can take care of yourself. But I want you to know that if anyone says anything to you, touches one inch of you--" His mouth's tight, and he breathes out in a warm, angry huff. "I'll fucking kill them, Blaise." He looks up Blaise then, his eyes narrowed. "I swear to God I fucking will."

"You twat." Blaise's heart thuds in his chest, and he leans forward, presses his forehead to Jake's. "But I'd do the same for you."

And he knows he means it. He'll protect Jake Durant with his last breath if he has to, and Blaise wonders if that's what loving someone is, knowing that you would do anything you had to in order to keep them safe. 

Blaise tangles his fingers in Jake's curls, holds him close. He brushes his mouth lightly against Jake's. "We have to go downstairs," he says, and Jake groans, his hands settling on Blaise's thighs. 

"They can wait," Jake says, a faint whine in his voice, and Blaise laughs, kisses him again. 

"You really think your cousin won't come pound on the door?" he asks. 

Jake pulls back, a look of alarm crossing his face. "Georgie'd blast the goddamn door open if she had to." He pushes himself to his feet, pushing his hair back as he does. "I suppose we ought to go down."

"It'll be humiliating if Draco and the guv beat us," Blaise points out, and Jake rolls his eyes. Blaise stands up, brushes the front of his shirt before he looks over at Jake. "Did you really not bring him here?"

"Harry?" Jake smoothes the bedspread out. "Never thought I had a reason to." He looks over at Blaise. "Maybe I would have, one day, but…" He trails off, then shrugs. "I'm glad Georgie's meeting you though." He grins a little. "She's always had a thing for posh boys, rather like me."

Warmth curls through Blaise's belly. He doesn't know what to say, so he just sniffs. "You're an idiot." But he lets his hand brush Jake's as he passes, heading for the door. He glances back over his shoulder. "Well? We haven't all day."

And as Jake walks past him, smelling of sweat and sex and lemongrass, Blaise realises that, all things given, he'd go anywhere Jake Durant asked him to. 

Maybe even to the bloody gates of hell and back.

***

Jake stops the battered Ford Escort beneath the old oak tree he'd played in as a child. The engine shudders as he brakes, then chokes, dying before he can actually turn the ignition off. It's a piece of shit car, borrowed from his Aunt Susette's ex-boyfriend with Georgie's help yesterday, but at least he hadn't had to rent anything to drive them around Lafourche Parish. Jake'd nearly drained his entire bank account, even dipping into savings, before he'd flown out of JFK on Sunday morning; now he's carrying a wad of cash bigger than he'd like in his wallet, charmed against pickpockets and thieves. He takes his sunglasses off, slides one leg of them over the visor as he looks up at the house in front of him. His heart aches a bit. The roof's mostly gone, blown away in the storm, and a grey tarp's covering the hole, the edges tucked beneath the gutters with sticking charms. The house is smaller than he remembers, even from his adolescent visits during the summers with Aunt Eula once school had ended in Shreveport, or during Christmas. But the porch is still there with the rockers his mamère had liked to sit on in the late afternoon, knitting or shucking peas, and the clapboard might need a new coat of paint, but it's still home in a way that Jake can feel deep in his bones. His mama had grown up here, as had Aunt Eula, and it'd been in this house that Jake had watched his mamère pass, had seen her say goodbye to him from the foot of her deathbed.

"This is your grandfather's?" Malfoy asks from the back seat, and Jake just nods. He can feel Harry watching him, and it's strange and awkward to have him here, like this, right now. He wonders if maybe he ought to have brought Blaise with him instead, but Jake's not ready for any of that to come out, not with his papère, and Étienne Fontenot's never been pleased that Jake was, in his words, a cocotte. And Jake doesn't want to think about those last minutes with Blaise in their room, the feelings he'd felt twisting through him, the ones he was almost certain he'd felt from Blaise too. He doesn't understand anything that's going on between them, but he knows he couldn't bear for it to end. Not yet, at least. So it's better they slow things down, better they have some space. 

"Jake," Harry says quietly. "Are we going in?"

"Yeah," Jake says, looking up at the door again. "But let me do the talking, all right? Papère's…" He hesitates, then says, "Difficult sometimes. More so since Mamère went." He thinks about his father's words as he was leaving Oudepoort. _Say hello to your mamère._ A shiver goes through Jake, and he drops his hands from the steering wheel, gazing up at the house. His grandmother's flower beds are still being taken care of; it says something about his grandfather that those were cleaned off and reset before the work was finished on the rest of the house. He draws in a slow, even breath, then wrenches the car door open, clambering out. Harry and Malfoy follow him, and if Jake weren't so worried about seeing his grandfather again, he'd be amused at the sight of Malfoy untangling himself from the back seat of an Escort. As it is, he's already walking up the dirt streaked pavers towards the house when the other two doors slam shut behind him. 

He's barely set foot on the stoop when the front door opens. Behind the screen door, Étienne Fontenot stands, in a low-slung pair of jeans and pale blue plaid shirt, tall and rangy like Jake, his hair a shock of pure white against his tanned skin. They look at each other, Jake and his papère, blue eyes meeting brown, and Jake can see his mama in his grandfather's long face, in the way his eyelids droop at the corners, in his full mouth and his narrow shoulders. 

"Mais," Étienne says after a moment. "Heard you be back in town again, boy." His gaze flicks over Jake's shoulder, towards Harry and Malfoy, coming up the steps behind him. "Who that?"

"Friends." Jake feels like a child again, standing in front of his papère. Étienne'd preferred him to Eddie, after all, but Jake still thinks that his grandfather doesn't like the way he looks like Jasper Durant. He'd never forgiven Élodie for marrying Jasper, as much as he'd loved his daughter, and now she's dead, there's no way Étienne can change that. Jake shoves his hands in his pocket. "Can we talk?"

Étienne hesitates, then he pushes the screen door open. "I need to make groceries," he says, "but I got some chicory on if you want a cup."

"Thanks." Jake scrapes his boots across the doormat; Harry and Draco do so as well, following him into the cool dimness of the front room. It's the same as it's always been, with the floral chintz sofas his grandmother had loved, and the family photographs hung along the walls. Jake's eye finds the one of him and Eddie as children, hanging from the branches of the tree outside, both of them blond and laughing, Jake's feet barely skimming the ground as he swings from the lowest branch. Eddie's higher than him, hanging upside down, his knees caught over a branch, his hair falling towards the ground, his face pink from the rush of blood. Mama had taken that picture, Jake remembers, and his daddy had been behind her laughing while Mamère fussed at them from her rocker on the porch. He looks away, unhappily. Life had been so damn different back then, Jake thinks. He wonders what it would have been like if Jasper hadn't been a fucking shit, if he'd stayed at home and taken care of them all like a proper father. Jake doesn't know that he'll ever forgive him that. 

Or if he wants to. 

His grandfather leads them into the kitchen. It's small and bright, the linoleum on the floor white with thin grey boxes on it, tiny daisies at the corners of each box. The counters are still the lemon yellow Jake remembers, as is the refrigerator, and his grandmother's favourite lace curtains hang at the window that looks out on the hill going down to the narrow stretch of bayou, bright and shining in the sunlight. They'd never been allowed out there when they were kids, at least not without an adult. Too much danger of a gator crawling out and dragging you off for an afternoon snack. His grandfather had shot one once, when it was going after his cousin Beau--one of the myriad second or third cousins Jake has around here--and Jake would bet good money the skull's still on his grandfather's bookshelf in his study where it'd been for years afterwards. The rest of the gator'd been sold off to others: the meat ended up in the butcher's shop, the skin with someone in town who'd wanted to tan it. All Jake remembers is his Aunt Julie screaming at the top of her lungs while the gunshot echoed over her shrieks and the gator's tail thrashed through the dirt and Beau laughed his fool ass off from six feet off the ground where Jake's mama had Levitated him seconds before the gator had come flying out of the water.

"Take a seat," Étienne says, waving a hand towards the oval table. It's covered with red gingham oilcloth, stacks of mail set on one end, but it's neat and clean, and Jake drops into one of the wooden chairs his great-grandfather had made back in the Twenties when he'd built this house. Harry takes the seat opposite him; Malfoy sits in the middle, looking oddly out of place. He doesn't seem to notice, though; instead, he glances around the kitchen, and all Jake can feel from him is a wave of interest and curiosity. Nothing judgmental. 

"You weathered the storm well." Jake leans his elbows on the table, watching his grandfather pour the coffee into demitasse cups, adding splashes of milk warmed with a heating charm. "Not a lot of damage, other than the roof, it looks like."

"Saint Valérie be praised," Étienne says, invoking Thibodaux's favourite saint to pray to for hurricane protection, and Jake tries not to flinch. It'd been his grandmother who'd been the devout Catholic, the one who'd been active in the women's group at St Joseph's, but the quick way Étienne crosses himself--head, chest, shoulder, shoulder--brings to mind the shouting matches his own mama had with his daddy about taking them all to church. He and Eddie'd sided with Jasper when they got to a certain age. No boy wanted to be trapped inside on a Sunday morning in a shirt and tie when there was a whole goddamn world out there to be explored. Élodie had eventually given up and gone to sit in the pew with her mama and daddy while Jasper took their boys out crawfishing on the bayou. 

His grandfather Levitates the cups over to the table with a flick of his wand before tucking it into his wide leather belt. The cups land with a soft thump in the centre, and Jake reaches for one. "Could have been worse," Étienne says, walking over, his own cup of chicory coffee in his hand. He takes the empty seat. "Helps we're on a hill and my wards held strong, 'cept for the roof. Whole family gathered over here to ride it out, all of us shouting _voila merde_ to the winds." He shrugs. "Worked." His mouth tightens. "Wasn't so good for some of your Robichau cousins. Told Martin years ago they were building too close to the bayou and those levees near him were shit. He should have warded them more."

They fall silent, then Étienne looks over at Harry. "This bon rien isn't gonna introduce us, I reckon." His gaze swings to Malfoy. "I'm Étienne Fontenot."

"Harry Potter," Harry says, then he nods to Malfoy. "Draco Malfoy." 

"Thank you for welcoming us to your home." Malfoy's voice is soft, careful. He's studying Jake's papère. He lifts his coffee to his mouth; he manages to hide his grimace well after he takes a swallow. Jake probably should have warned them both. Chicory's an acquired taste. 

"Brits." Étienne eyes Malfoy, then he looks over at Jake. "This isn't a visit then, unless you're leaving New York for England."

Ironically, Jake thinks he just might have to, after all of this, but he shakes his head. "Harry's an Auror." He doesn't mention their prior relationship. The only one of his direct family he'd ever talked frequently about Harry to during the two years they'd dated is Georgie. She's the one who could understand the most, though he thinks some of his other cousins might know about their relationship. At least the ones who he's told he's gay. That's still something his grandfather would rather Jake keep to himself. "Malfoy's an Unspeakable." He lifts his coffee, takes a sip. It's bitter and milky and sweet, and Jake's missed this, sitting here in his grandparents' kitchen with a cafe au lait in his hands, his heels banging against the rungs of his chair. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear his mama and his mamère in the front room, laughing and talking. 

His papère leans back in his chair. "I see." His face is more wrinkled than Jake remembers, his hair whiter. When Jake was little it'd been mostly black, with a few streaks of grey near the temples. His papère's an old man now, almost seventy, Jake thinks, and he's been living out here alone for far too long. Étienne sighs, then takes a sip of his own coffee. "So are you going to tell me what brings two British agents and a MACUSA Unspeakable to my doorstep?" He looks at them, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. "As far as I know I haven't broken any laws of another country."

And this is where it gets difficult, Jake thinks. He exhales, looks over at Harry who nods at him. "Eddie has," Jake says after a moment, and his grandfather's shoulders tighten.

"That goddamn bibitte," Étienne says in a rush of breath, followed by a long string of Cajun expletives that Jake has no intention of translating for Harry, although he thinks Malfoy might know enough French to follow. "What the fuck did your asshole brother fooyay with now?"

 _Robbed a bank,_ Jake wants to say. _Kidnapped Malfoy and beat the shit out of him. Among other things, I'm sure._ Instead he just folds his arms on the table and says, "It's not so much what he's done, Papère. It's the clues that he's left us." His gaze slides over to Malfoy. He needs help here, he realises. He might know his grandfather, but this is goddamn harder than he expected. _Please,_ he sends across the edges of Malfoy's consciousness, and Malfoy hesitates, then nods. A rush of relief goes through Jake. He feels raw here, with all these memories surrounding him. Maybe he shouldn't have come to Thibodaux. Maybe he should have just called Harry and let him take point on all of this. But Jake knows that's fucking stupid. This is his family, his fuckup. He has to help clean it up, however he can. 

Malfoy pulls a pen from his pocket and reaches for one of the envelopes on the table. "May I?" At Étienne's nod, Malfoy sketches out the fragment of the Robichau crest Eddie'd left embedded on the floor in Lestrange's vault. "This keeps coming up in our investigation," he says quietly, pushing it towards Étienne. "Do you know what it is?"

Étienne pulls it closer, frowning down at it before he looks up at Jake. "You know what that is," he says, and it could be the two of them at the table alone. "What's your fool brother doing?" 

"I don't know," Jake says truthfully. "But I want to find him before he gets hurt." He looks at his papère. "What can you tell us about the Robichaus?"

But Étienne's already shaking his head. "Jakey." And that childhood nickname, coming from his grandfather makes Jake's throat tighten. 

Harry leans forward. "That symbol there, Mr Fontenot," he says, tapping his fingertip against the drawing, "is an old one, at least for us Brits. It stands for the Deathly Hallows. Have you ever heard about them?"

At that Étienne stills. He's looking at the paper, but Jake catches the expression that flits across his grandfather's face, feels the faint twist of uncertainty, the hesitation from Étienne. And then a soft name escapes his grandfather's lips, a quiet sigh that Jake can barely hear. _Léonie._

Étienne glances up at Jake. "I don't know much," he says. "Nothing about those deathly things this one mentioned." He nods over at Harry. "But I've heard the word Hallows before, in regards to the Robichaus." He takes the envelope in his hands, looking down at Malfoy's drawing. His finger traces the circle around the triangle. "I asked her once. Your mamère. I saw this crest, and I was curious, so I asked her what she knew about it. She didn't say a lot, but she said these lines were Hallows, and that her family took care of them, that they'd always taken care of them." He looks up again, lets the envelope slide out of his gnarled fingers. It lands on the table beside his demitasse cup. 

Malfoy leans over to Harry and murmurs, "The Peverells?" Harry just shakes his head, frowns. 

"How long?" Jake asks. "It's not any family history Mama ever told me."

"She wouldn't have known. Eula either." Jake's grandfather picks up his cup, swirls the milky coffee around. "Your mamère didn't want them mixed up in all that, if she could help it, and we never had a boy to carry on the tradition." He takes a sip of coffee, then sets the cup back down with a sigh. "Mais, all I know is the Robichaus came over from France a couple hundred years back. Run off, as far as I could tell." He looks over at Harry and Malfoy. "That's how most of us end up here, right? Trying to get away from things we didn't care for wherever we come from. Maybe it's stupid of us, looking for another place. _Le cheval reste dans l'écurie, le mulet dans la savane, oui?_ " He shakes his head. "Anyway. Léonie always said they came from a powerful wizard, but made me promise not to say anything to her daddy about it. So I didn't. Weren't my place after all. They was Robichaus. Me, I was a Fontenot. We made our way down here from Acadia, not France." His face twists, a bit bitterly. "Not that Ignace Robichau ever let me forget that."

Jake leans back in his chair, looking at his grandfather. "And that's it? Almost thirty years married to the woman before she died, and she didn't tell you anything else?" He doesn't fucking believe that. He knows how much his grandfather loved his grandmother, how attached they were, how his grandfather had nearly lost himself when Mamère Léonie died. 

Étienne's silent for a moment, and then he sighs again. "Look, boy. Anything else you want to know about your mamère's family, you need to ask them yourself. Léonie's brother Luc's head of the Robichau clan now that Ignace passed on. You should talk to him if you want to know secrets. Maybe he'll tell you, maybe he won't, but I'll say this first off." He leans towards Jake, his long, wrinkled finger poking into Jake's arm. "You left here, boy. Now you're coming back and asking things like this and you better show some damn respect. To me and your other elders, for fuck's sake. Which means you let me talk to Luc first, and then we'll see if he's willing to sit down with you." 

"We don't have time--" Jake starts to say, but his grandfather cuts him off. 

"You'll make the goddamn time." Étienne settles back in his chair, his gaze sweeping across all three of them. "So y'all come back tomorrow morning. Meet me at the levees over near Lake Boeuf and wear some work clothes because if you want to talk to Luc Robichau, you're going to get your wand hands dirty helping us build the wards back up. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly," Malfoy says before Jake can protest. He pushes his chair back. "Harry, I think we should give Durant a moment with his grandfather, don't you?"

 _No,_ Jake wants to say, and he thinks he might have projected it into Malfoy's mind because Malfoy gives him a sharp, quick look. Jake sinks back into his seat. 

Harry holds out his hand to Étienne. "Nice to meet you, sir." 

Étienne grips Harry's hand, then stills, his fingers wrapped around Harry's. "Potter, you said?" His eyes narrow. "We heard about a Potter a few years ago. Made it into the papers. Story from England about a young boy stopping a Dark wizard or some such trash. Thought it was bullshit."

"All true, I'm afraid." Harry lets his hand drop. He looks a bit awkward. "I went into the Aurors afterward."

 _And then let your grandson shag him raw,_ Jake thinks, and he knows that one went out too far because Malfoy turns a frown on him. _Sorry,_ Jake thinks, and Malfoy rolls his eyes.

"Mais," Étienne says to Harry, "maybe that'll turn Luc's ear. I'll try at least."

"Thank you." Harry stands, his chair scraping across the floor. "It'd help us a lot."

Étienne hesitates, then looks over at Jake. "Is this going to get Eddie in trouble? That boy, he gives me the tchew rouge, he does, I'll admit it, but he's ours, and if you're trying--"

"I'm trying to keep him out of Oudepoort, Papère. Or worse." Jake meets his grandfather's gaze evenly. He can feel Harry and Malfoy step away, but he doesn't look at them. He waits until he hears the slam of the screen door, and then he says, "Eddie's trying to fix something he thinks he fucked up, but he's up against some dangerous men. He's trying to give us hints as to what they're after--what he's trying to stop them from getting--and we've other clues that lead back to this." He points down at the envelope and the Robichau family crest. He's not about to mention his daddy; that'll only set his grandfather off again, and Jake needs Étienne to help them. "So I need to find out what the hell he's telling me."

His grandfather's silent for a moment, his thick fingers curling around the tiny demitasse cup. Those hands have always been strong. They'd taught Jake how to hold a wand when he was just a tadpole, eager to send sparks flying from his grandfather's hickory. They'd comforted him when his daddy'd been taken away, they'd steadied him when his mama had died. And they'd beat the hell out of him when Jake had looked at his grandfather and told him he liked boys. 

Jake had left Louisiana not long after that. Gone to Atlanta. Left his family behind. He'd thought he'd had to. Sure he'd come back every now and then, but those were quick visits, and if he's honest he hasn't been here in years. He misses his family. Misses this place. And he hates it still. Hates them. And yet that anger's mixed with love, and Jake doesn't know what to do with any of it. 

And so he holds out his hand, palm up, and he waits, looking at his grandfather, his breath catching, holding as Étienne watches him, then slowly moves his own hand, laying it over Jake's. 

Something hot wells up inside of Jake, and he blinks hard, knowing he can't give into it. Not here. Not in front of his grandfather. 

"I'll do what I can, Jakey," Étienne says, his voice quiet. His fingers curl around Jake's, squeezing for a moment before he draws his hand back. "That's all I can promise."

"Merci." Jake pushes his chair back, stands. "That'll do, Papère."

He leaves his grandfather still sitting in the kitchen, the scrap of envelope in front of him. Jake's trembling, from what, he's not certain, but as he passes through the front room, he thinks he sees a movement from the corner of his eye. He turns his head, and she's there for a moment. His mamère. Standing there with her salt and pepper curls and her soft body filling out her house dress, her round face turned towards him. But she's not smiling. She mouths something at him, and then she's gone, and Jake's staring at the painting of St Francis his grandmother had hung over the hearth, the terrible one with all the wonky-eyed animals surrounding what looks like a half-mad saint. He and Eddie had made fun of it for years, and his mama had told them to hush when they did, lest St Francis send a wildebeest after them. Jake'd been nearly in his twenties before he found out there weren't any goddamn wildebeests in rural southern Louisiana for St Francis to use. 

Jake draws in a deep breath and shakes his head. He's seeing things he thinks. This fucking parish is sinking back into him, messing with his mind. 

Harry and Malfoy are sitting on the porch in the rockers when he comes out. "Let's get the hell out of here," Jake says, a bit more roughly than he intends, and Malfoy eyes him. 

"Something go wrong?" Malfoy asks. Jake just shakes his head. He can't get the image of his grandmother out of his mind, the way she'd looked at him, her brow furrowed, the movements of her mouth when she'd tried to speak. Goddamn, he's losing it. It's just his imagination working overtime, he tells himself as he stomps down the steps, Harry and Malfoy at his heels. Nothing more than that. He pulls the Escort door open and throws himself into the driver's seat.

"Sure you're all right?" Harry climbs into the front seat again; Malfoy folds himself into the back. 

Jake slips his sunglasses off the visor and puts them on, reaching down to crank the ignition. "This place just gets to me," he says, and he shifts into gear, reversing the car out of the driveway. He catches a glimpse of his papère at the screen door, watching from the shadows of the house, and he lets the wheels spin for just a moment, kicking up a cloud of dust before he sends the car flying out onto the road. 

He's halfway around the curve before he realises what his mamère had tried to say. 

_Run._

***

Althea grips the side of Georgie's pickup truck as it bounces along a narrow road, her fingers digging into the cream vinyl. Pansy slides against her when they hit a washed-out bit of gravel, and whilst Althea would normally be thrilled at the press of Pansy's thigh against hers, this isn't exactly the most romantic environment. Zabini's on Pansy's other side, and he keeps glancing over her head at Althea in a way that's starting to annoy her.

Georgie swears as a low-hanging tree branch scrapes across the windscreen, then over the roof of the cab. "Sorry," she says, giving them an apologetic glance before turning back towards the road. "I don't know the fuck why Daddy doesn't live on a goddamn proper road."

The copper in Althea wants to say _to keep people like us away_ , but she holds her tongue and puts her hand on the seat between herself and Pansy, hoping to put a bit of distance between the two of them. It'd been awkward when they'd gone up to the hotel room; Althea hadn't expected that she'd be sharing with Pansy, although she supposes she should have. What else would've happened, really? The guv and Malfoy'd have a room together, and if she thought Durant wouldn't have Zabini tucked away in his bed, well, she'd be a damned fool. Which, Althea supposes, she must be. At least the room has two beds, which is a relief. Althea doesn't think she could bear sleeping beneath the same covers as Pansy. It'd been hard enough to watch her strip off her shirt and toss it aside as she'd dug through her satchel for a fresh one, standing there in nothing but her jeans and her lacy black bra. 

And then Pansy'd just looked up at her cheekily and said, "Have an issue, do you, Whitaker, with me flashing my tits at Durant's uncle?"

How could Althea have answered that? She'd just sat on the edge of the bed, changing her trainers for proper boots she'd pulled from her bag, then sighed and said, "You shouldn't be asked to do that sort of thing." 

Pansy'd just shrugged. "No skin off mine, really." And then she'd cupped her breasts, lifting them up, the nipples nearly coming out of the lace and said, "They are bloody decent, if I do say so myself."

Althea'd just laced her boots, unable to speak. Fuck but she's really not going to make it through the next few days. 

And now here she's sat in a pickup, her arse sliding across the seat with every jolt and bump, pressing into Pansy bloody Parkinson and her utterly brilliant breasts that are on display in a tight black t-shirt with a v-neck that shows the edges of that goddamned lacy bra. To be honest, Althea's just glad she hasn't a prick. She's pretty fucking certain it'd be impossible to hide it at the moment. As it is, she's hoping her shirt's loose enough to keep her own nipples off display. Really, she doesn't know how Zabini's managing it, although she supposes having someone like Jake Durant in your bed does make it easier to overlook Pansy's gorgeous tits. 

Or maybe not, given the way Zabini's just glanced down Pansy's shirt, the bastard.

They round another corner, and a small house comes into view. It's tidy; from what Althea can tell whatever damage the storm did has been mostly cleaned up. There's still a small pile of plasterboard and two-by-fours next to the road--or what passes for it, at least--but the roof's almost entirely redone, and the clapboard's been repainted. The porch is cleared off, save for a single chair set by the door which opens when Georgie parks the pickup beside a large black Jeep. 

"Not a lot of storm damage," Althea says, sliding out of the truck. Pansy follows, her black flats striking the dusty gravel with a soft scrape. Althea steadies her, catching her elbow, and Pansy smiles over at her, a bit faintly before she pulls away. Zabini hops out after them, and he looks over at the house. 

"Better than a good half the houses we've passed," Zabini says, and he looks over at Georgie, her mass of blonde curls just barely visible over the cab of the pickup. "Your father a contractor when he's not off breaking the law?"

"Try a handyman, or so he claims." Georgie slams her door. "Daddy's fixed most of it up himself. Helps when you don't have a goddamn real job to fill your time." 

Her father steps out onto the porch. He's tall and lanky like every Durant Althea's met so far, with the curly blond hair and the bright, icy blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he squints. "Hey, baby girl. Where y'at?" 

"Things aren't too bad," Georgie says. Her sandals flap against her heels as she climbs the porch steps. "Brought some people to see you." She looks back over her shoulders. "Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and Althea Whitaker. This is my daddy, Rufus Durant."

Rufus scratches at his jaw. He's scruffy and in need of a shave, but he's freshly showered and in clean clothes, almost as if he's been expecting company. Althea glances at Pansy, and the look she gets in return lets her know Pansy's noticed that as well. "Hey, hey," Rufus says. "You the ones Jakey's working with?"

"The one and only," Pansy says, and Rufus' gaze goes straight to her tits, just like Georgie said. Annoyance swells up in Althea; she does her best to push it down. Pansy holds out her hand. "I'm Pansy, and this is Althea. He's Blaise." She jerks her chin towards Zabini, and Althea watches Rufus carefully for his reaction. He doesn't pull back; instead he holds his hand out to Zabini, shaking it firmly. Althea relaxes a little. "We're with the British Aurors."

"Well, girl," Rufus says, "if our Aurors had someone as fine as you on the New Orleans force, maybe I wouldn't have to run as fast as I usually do."

Georgie rolls her eyes. "Jesus Christ, Daddy. Can we go inside?"

"Don't you be taking the good Lord's name, girl," Rufus says. "Your mama been letting you talk like that?"

"As if you don't say the same thing half the time." Georgie holds the door open as her father winks at Pansy. "In. Now." She points into the house. "God, it's like herding a toddler. You're worse than Lottie ever was."

Rufus raises his eyebrows. "And how is that perfect little Ilvermorny-bound angel of mine?"

"Trying her best to get her ass out of Lafourche Parish," Georgie says. "And away from you, please, Christ." She doesn't seem to care that her father gives her a reproachful look as he walks past.

Rufus leads them into the sitting room. It's bright and sunny, and the cooling charms are strong in the air. Althea feels gooseflesh rise on her arms, and she thinks it's from the change in temperature. She's not entirely certain though. Rufus Durant's a charming bastard, but Althea's faced down her fair share of those over the years. An affable criminal's still a criminal in the end, and Georgie's told them enough on the way over about her father's history with the local Auror force. He's a swindler at the very least, overpricing his handyman work for Muggles and occasionally lifting expensive items at the same time when he's at the richer homes. According to Georgie he never steals from people who don't have means; Rufus seems to be the bloody Robin Hood of the parish, except he's mostly redistributing wealth to himself and a few of his closest friends and family members. Then there's the charm work--the gris-gris, Georgie called it--that he sells around southern Louisiana along with half the Durant family. Small spells mostly, but they toe the line on necromancy just enough that the Aurors like to keep an eye on Rufus and his relatives.

"I'd offer y'all some coffee," Rufus says, "but it's hotter than Satan's asshole out there, so y'all'd probably say no."

"Probably," Zabini agrees, and Althea looks around the small room. It's tidy as well, more so than she'd expect from a man who lived alone. For Circe's sake, even her own flat isn't this clean, and she's barely in it these days. There's a sofa, a recliner and two armchairs arranged around a telly, and a low shelf of books in front of the large window. Novels mostly, some obviously wizarding, but Althea also recognises Muggle titles, ones her father reads. A number of classics--Dickens, Kafka, Tolstoy, Emily Dickinson, Homer, all the Brontës--as well as few thrillers and spy novels. A whole collection of John le Carré, which surprises Althea. 

"So, Rufus," Pansy says, sitting on the sofa and leaning forward just enough to let her cleavage show to its best advantage. "If you know we're here with your nephew, what do you think we want from you?"

Rufus raises an eyebrow as he takes the recliner. The upholstery's worn, so Althea suspects it's his favourite seat. Zabini sits in one of the armchairs, and Georgie drops into the other one with an irritated huff, which leaves Althea gingerly perched on the sofa next to Pansy, feeling a bit oddly put out. "I'd have thought," Rufus says after a moment, "that my goddamn nephew--pardon my language, ladies--would've had the courtesy to come see me about whatever information he may or may not think I have for him." And with that, he leans back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. 

He has a point, Althea thinks. But then again, she can also see why Durant might want to put this first visit off on them. Rufus isn't an idiot, that much is obvious. 

Neither is his daughter. "Cut the shit, Daddy," Georgie says. "Jake already knows you talked to Uncle Jasper because I told him yesterday. These Aurors are just here to ask you what the fuck Jas told you."

"You got a real mouth on you, Georgine Paulette." Rufus scowls at her. "Don't you be talking to your daddy that way."

"I'll talk to you how I want." Georgie leans forward in her chair, her eyes narrowing. "So tell them."

Rufus sighs and looks over at Zabini, man to man, which irritates the fuck out of Althea. "See what I deal with? Shouldn't have let her mama take her when she left. Now she's all goddamn uppity with me--"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Georgie says under her breath, and Althea feels Pansy shift beside her. When she glances over, Pansy's mouth is twitching dangerously. Althea knocks her knee against Pansy's, and Pansy coughs into her hand, barely masking her laugh. 

Althea wishes she hadn't braided her hair this morning and wrapped it around her head. She wants the loose ends to tug on, to twist between her fingers the way she does when she needs to let out some stress. Instead she clasps her hands between her thighs. "The thing is, Mr Durant--"

"Call me Rufus." Rufus rubs a hand over his thigh. "Please."

"All right," Althea says. "Rufus." She hesitates, her thumb scratching a bug bite that's risen up on her wrist, pink and swollen and itchy. "It would help us a lot, your nephew included, if we knew what Jasper Durant asked you to do for his son."

"I don't know why he can't ask me himself," Rufus says, a bit petulantly, and his daughter looks as if she wants to pick up the _Times-Picayune_ on the coffee table and slap him with it.

"He's off with his mama's family right now," Georgie says. "Jesus, Daddy."

Before Rufus can go off on his daughter again, Zabini clears his throat, and they both look over at him. "Please," he says, his voice quiet. "It'd help us out a lot."

Rufus is silent for a long moment, then he sighs, runs his hands over his face before he sinks back into the chair. "It's not like what you think," he says finally. "Jasper don't know all that much. He just told me Jakey would be coming down, that he'd have some questions that Jasper doesn't know the answers to, at least not all of them." He stops, then looks over at Althea, his lip caught between his teeth. "Jas was a bit upset anyway. He'd had a visit from Quahog--"

" _President_ Quahog?" Georgie asks, and when her father nods, she shakes her head, her mouth tugging down at the corners. "Fuck."

"That's pretty much what I said." Rufus folds his arms across his chest. He looks uncomfortable, Althea thinks, although she suspects the Durants are consummate liars, so she's not certain if she can trust her own interpretations. Not without running them against what her colleagues think. Still, Rufus frowns. "Jas said Quahog wanted something from him. Some sort of artefact. He wouldn't say what it was, just that Quahog thought he had it. Or knew where it was, at least."

Zabini leans forward, his elbows on his knees. His sleeves are rolled up on his forearm, the white cotton a sharp contrast to his brown skin. Althea's worried about him down here. She'd overheard a bit of his conversation with their driver at the hotel, and it's something she hadn't thought about. She should have, she thinks, the same way she worries whenever she travels about being seen as gay. It's not that she's afraid, but she's careful in a way maybe she isn't as much when she's in her own familiar environment. She doesn't know these people--none of them do, except Durant himself, and even he doesn't seem comfortable around them. That doesn't exactly inspire confidence. 

"So," Zabini says, "does Jasper know where it is?"

Rufus is silent for a moment, and then he sighs. "He says he don't." He holds up his hand, cutting off Pansy's protest. "Look, all he told me is that there's some sort of artefact that Élodie--Jake's mama--was keeping for the Robichaus after her own mama died. Étienne didn't even know about her doing that, and Jasper only found out because Élodie was worried about the boys getting into it. He told me she didn't tell him what it was, didn't tell him where she put it. Fuck, even Quahog don't know what it was, not exactly." Rufus stops for a moment, then he says, sounding more than a little defeated, "That what Jas tells me, at least. Fuck if I know whether I believe him anymore." He rubs at his temple. "Jasper's a damn liar, always has been, but he loved Élodie and he loved his boys." He looks up at Zabini. "He'd do anything to keep them safe, if he had to."

Althea looks over at Zabini, her eyebrow raised. It's not much, but it's something they might be able to go off of. Zabini nods, understanding. 

"Who would know what it is?" Pansy asks. Rufus's gaze swings over to her again. "If Élodie was hiding it, someone must have known--"

Rufus' mouth tightens. "Ask them goddamn Robichaus," he spits out. "Fuckers swanning around Thibodaux like they own the place. None of the rest of us are any good--Luc Robichau nearly had a fucking fit when his precious sister married a Fontenot. As if Léonie'd have been any damn good in New Orleans society. She had too much of a brain for that, and so did her daughter. Élodie Fontenot was a goddamn gem among women here, and she loved my brother, even when he fucked up. I still say whatever it was that bastard Luc gave her to look after, it killed her--"

"She died of cancer," Zabini says, his voice quiet, and Rufus Durant falls silent. 

"Jake told you that, didn't he?" Rufus asks. Zabini nods. Rufus looks away. "Maybe she did," he says after a moment. "Maybe she did. That's what the Healers say." 

Pansy watches him, and Althea knows that expression on her face. It's curious and determined, the way she looks when she finds a problem in the lab she hasn't quite expected. "You don't agree?"

Rufus shrugs. "I'm not a Healer, am I?" 

Althea narrows her eyes at him. There's something in the way he turns his head, something in the way his voice cracks at the end of that question. And then it hits her. "But you were in love with her."

Georgie breathes in sharply; her father doesn't look her way. He meets Althea's gaze evenly. "It was hard," Rufus says after a moment, "not to be in love with Élodie." His jaw twitches, and he adds, "She wasn't in love with me. Jasper was it for her. All she wanted, even after it all, and I understood that. But if you're asking me if I think cancer took her, well, I don't rightly know." He glances away then, his gaze going to a photograph on the bookcase. It's him, Althea realises, with a man that looks so much like Jake Durant that it has to be his father. Between them is a shorter woman, blonde and laughing, her face heart-shaped, her wide eyes looking up at her husband. Rufus is right, Althea thinks. That's the face of a woman in love. 

Rufus scratches his jaw again, almost without thought. "She was fine," he says after a moment. "And then she wasn't, and Jas swears she started going down not long after Luc gave her whatever it was she was keeping. Maybe he's wrong, maybe he's right, but their lives fell apart afterwards. Jas ended up in Oudepoort; Élodie ended up in the mausoleum. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, really. Both their boys ended up alone."

And so did you, Althea wants to say. She doesn't. 

Zabini leans back in his chair. He looks unsettled, and Althea can't blame him. This wasn't what any of them expected, she thinks. She looks over at Rufus. "You're going to have tell your nephew this."

Rufus nods. "I think his daddy wants me to." He falls silent again, and Althea thinks he's said all they'll get from him. And then he sighs, heavy and deep. "Look," he says, scratching his thumb across the worn upholstery of his recliner. "When Jasper first went to Oudepoort, he told me it wasn't his fault what happened. That it'd been a mistake, that he and his partner he was working with used something they shouldn't have." He looks up at Althea. "An artefact. And then the next thing I know, he's saying it wasn't anything like that, telling the Aurors he done it all alone, that it'd been a necromantic spell he'd fucked up that left that poor bastard half-dead." Rufus shakes his head, swears. "And now with all this, I'm wondering which story was the lie, you know? Maybe Jasper does know what Quahog wants. I don't goddamn know myself anymore, but if anyone around here does, it'd be the Robichaus." He makes a face. "Creepy motherfuckers, if you ask me, and they look down those noses of theirs on my kin because we walk around the dead."

"Not supposed to admit to that, Daddy," Georgie says from her chair. She sounds tired, unhappy, and Althea wonders what this conversation's been like for her. 

"Sorry, baby girl." Rufus looks over at her, and Althea recognises the love written across his face. Whatever difficulties their relationship might have, Rufus Durant does care about his daughter. 

Georgie just nods, then looks away, and her father turns back to Althea. "I'll talk to Jakey later," he says, and Althea doesn't know what to add. 

They're all silent, the house creaking around them, and then Zabini stands. "We should go back," he says, and he holds out his hand to Rufus. "Thanks for your help."

Rufus' fingers curl around Zabini's. "Anything else you need, you tell me. Georgie knows how to get hold of me, day or night." He stands as the rest of them do, leaning over to kiss his daughter's cheek. Georgie holds him tight for a moment, and then she steps away, blinking hard. Her father catches her hand, leans down to say something softly to her.

Althea follows Pansy and Zabini out of the house. They stop beside the pickup, then Zabini glances over at them. "This doesn't go to Jake yet," he says, looking between Pansy and Althea. "I need to talk to him about it first, all right?"

Pansy looks as if she wants to object, but then she sighs and nods. "You'd best not keep it to yourself for too long," she says. "We can't hold off--"

"I'll tell him about Luc Robichau," Zabini says, and his brow's furrowed. "But the bit about his mother…" He trails off, looking away, towards the trees swaying slightly in the faint breeze that barely cuts the humidity. "That's going to be harder." He bites his lip, then glances back at them. "And I think it should come from me."

Althea agrees. "It'd be easier for him," she says. "But Pans is right. Don't hold back too long."

The slam of the door makes them all look up. Georgie's coming down the steps, a wan smile on her face. She pulls her keys from her pocket, walking over to the driver's side of the cab. "Family secrets, man," she says, and she drags her thumb along the curve of one eye, wiping away a bit of wetness. "That shit will fuck you up."

And really, Althea thinks, sliding into the pickup cab behind Pansy, Georgie has a bloody good point.

***

Davina's Tavern is a small wizarding bar down near Bayou Lafourche. Not that you can see the river from anywhere near the bar, Draco thinks, as he nurses a pint of Guinness, grateful that he's at least that option, given the American shit on draft. Not between the line of trees and the low buildings that sometimes look more like warehouses than shops, at least to his eye. Still, Davina's food is good, and Draco wonders if he could get Kreacher to reproduce this jambalaya Durant had told him to order, albeit a bit less spicy, maybe.

Blaise's stood over at the bar with Durant and Harry, their heads bent together, half-empty pint glasses in front of them. Draco thinks he ought to be over there with them, but he can't be arsed. Not at the moment. He's tired and unsettled. There's something about the magic of this place that doesn't sit well with Draco at times, as if it's roiling inside of him, calling out to him in a way he's not certain he likes. None of the others seem to feel it that way. It's strong, they've all admitted, but Draco's the only one who feels a bit nauseous, a bit off-kilter. 

He flattens his hand against the table, next to the shallow white bowl of jambalaya. He can feel the shivers of magic going through the wood, bouncing against his skin, and he doesn't understand it. Draco's been in magical places before, and they've never felt like this. There's a dread that's uncoiling in the pit of his stomach; he'd felt it when they'd stepped out of the minicab this afternoon, and it'd only grown stronger at Étienne Fontenot's house. He doesn't feel the urge to run away yet--well. He does, but it's not strong enough to make him act on it. But something isn't right, Draco's sure of that, and he's worried. 

Not that anyone's listening to him, of course, Draco thinks bitterly. He looks down the long table at Pansy and Althea. They're bent over their bowls of gumbo, whispering about something, and the way they look over at him from time to time makes it clear that they don't want him to hear. Draco wants to roll his eyes. It's about Pansy's family, he suspects. It's the only thing she'd be that secretive about, but it annoys him that she's turning to Althea bloody Whitaker now about all of it, and not him. Draco's been there for years, listening to her complain about Terry and Camilla, and, for Circe's sake, Daisy even. It hurts that she's shutting him out, but he's more pride than to let her know. So he sits silently, spearing a prawn and popping it into his mouth. The spice is almost overwhelming, but it fades a bit--or he's got used to it, he supposes. 

"Hey there, blondie." Davina herself sits down across from him, a damp rag in her hand. She's small and curvy and strikingly pretty, her dark brown skin gleaming in the light from the lamps over the table. "You're Malfoy, right?" 

Draco nods, still chewing. Durant had introduced them all when they'd come in for dinner. He glances over at the empty dishes around him. Harry'd finished first, then Durant and Blaise, before heading over to the bar for more beer. If he's honest, Draco's a bit annoyed that they've left him sat here alone, still working on his food. But he's fighting the waves of nausea as well, and it's putting him off eating, as much as he knows he needs to. Man can't live on Guinness alone, although Draco's a bit tempted to try.

"How's my jambalaya treating you?" Davina's eyes crinkle when she smiles. "You're looking a little flushed."

"Good," Draco croaks, and he reaches for the Guinness to wash the prawn down. "A bit spicy, but I can't seem to stop eating it."

Davina laughs. "I can get you some milk if you want. Helps to cut the spice a little."

"I'm fine." Draco dabs a paper serviette at the corners of his mouth, but he's not certain he's being truthful. He pushes the bowl away, then looks over at her. "You use magic to cook?"

"Nah." Davina shakes her head. "My granddaddy'd come back from the dead to kick my ass if I did. He taught me my way around a kitchen." She leans her elbows on the table. "Now the cleaning up, well, that's a different matter, yeah?" She laughs again, low and deep and throaty, and there's something about her that settles Draco's jangled nerves. 

He pushes his hair back behind his ears, studies her. She's in a sleeveless denim shirt and a loose, flowing skirt that falls almost to her ankles in folds of bright yellow. Her hair's hidden behind a black and white dotted scarf tied around her head in a complex pattern, the knot tucked beneath the edge at the nape of her neck. "What family around here do you belong to?" Draco asks, hoping he's not being too forward. 

"Fontenots," Davina says, and when Draco's eyebrows go up, she gives him a half-smile. "Jake and I are cousins somewhere along the line. We share great-grandmothers or something like that. Somewhere along the line one of our kin fell in love with a Bechet and here I am. We're Creoles, man, and magical to boot. Fuck those old laws saying who we couldn't marry. That was all bullshit to us wizards. Didn't matter who you were as long as you could cast a strong enough spell." She shrugs. "My mama's family were Wrights, though. Spent half the nineteenth century having to prove they were goddamn free." Her face tightens for a moment, and she looks away. "Pardon my fucking French."

"Pardoned," Draco says. He takes a sip of Guinness. "So you knew Jasper and Élodie, then?"

Davina hesitates, then says, "Élodie was my nanan." At Draco's frown, she clarifies. "Godmother, you'd call it. My mama was best friends with her. Attached at the hip, everyone said, even when Jasper came around and the whole Fontenot clan got up in a tizzy about him." She shakes her head. "You'd have thought she'd fell in love with the devil himself, and maybe she did. Jasper always was a bit of a bad boy. I think that was part of the attraction for Tante Élodie." Davina falls silent for a moment, then she glances back over at the bar where Durant's stood. "Charming son of a bitch, you know? But pas bon, we say. Jake's got a bit of it from his daddy, but he's more like his mama. Eddie on the other hand." Davina snorts, and Draco understands exactly what she means. She taps a finger on the table, but her mouth quirks up in a small smile. "That bastard could talk the skin off a snake, same as Jasper. Probably did, a time or two."

They're quiet for a moment, and Davina watches Draco as he takes another sip of his Guinness. She sighs, then she says, "Wouldn't think a Brit like you'd be interested in our old family histories."

Draco shrugs. "Call it an intellectual curiosity." Someone across the bar puts music on the jukebox. It's quiet. Plaintive. A man and his guitar, mostly, crying over a lost love. The bar isn't crowded tonight; other than them it's only a handful of people Draco suspects are regulars. Someone shouts Davina's name, but she ignores them, her gaze fixed on Draco's face. 

"You aren't gonna cause problems, are you?" Davina's voice is low, but Draco can hear the worry in it. "For us?" Her gaze flicks towards Durant at the bar. "For him?"

"I hope not." Draco turns the pint glass between his hands. He catches the curious look Blaise throws his way. Davina does too. 

She glances back over at Draco. "That's Jakey's young man, isn't it?" When Draco starts to protest, Davina shakes her head at him. "I've known Jake all my life, kept up with him even when his Tante Eula took him up the bayou to Shreveport after Élodie passed on. He may have left us behind for New York, but I'm not some country fool. I've been seeing the way Jake watches your friend all night." Her eyebrows go up. "So."

Draco doesn't want to say, if he's honest. He gets the definite sense that it's frowned upon to be queer here, even among the wizarding population. 

"I know he likes men," Davina says after a moment. "He told me and Georgie at the same time, back when he was eighteen." Her mouth curves ever so slightly. "Broke my heart for half a minute, if I'm honest. I had a crush on him since we were in third grade."

And Draco can't help but smile back at her. "It was like that, was it?"

"Lord, child, he was a looker even then." Davina glances back over at Durant, her face softening. "I know why he ran away, and Étienne Fontenot has some damn sins to answer for, in my way of thinking, that sanctimonious shithead." Her gaze swings back to Draco. "Like I said, old history." She leans forward. "So your friend and Jake?"

Draco falls silent, then he sighs. "They're something," he admits slowly. "I'm not sure they know what yet."

Davina tuts. "I reckon they'll figure it out soon enough." She eyes Draco. "So why should I trust you?"

"Maybe you shouldn't." Draco rubs his thumb over a water stain on the tabletop. "But I can promise you there's not a single one of us who'd do anything to hurt Jake Durant. We're just here looking for information. That's all."

Davina's mouth thins. "That's always when things blow up in your damn face," she says. She twists her rag between her fingers, then she exhales, a soft, low huff of breath, and Draco can tell she's made her choice. "Look, you want to know more about Élodie and Jasper, go see my mama tomorrow. Nathalie Fontenot. She lives down off Canal Street." 

"Can you write the address down for me?" Draco pulls his pen from his pocket and hands it over, along with one of the serviettes. Davina scrawls down street number, then pushes it back across the table to Draco, along with his pen. 

"You upset her, and you better believe I'll be on your scrawny ass," Davina says, and she stands, sweeping her rag across her side of the table. She glances over at his bowl. "You done with that?" Draco nods, and she picks it up, wiping beneath it before she stacks it up with the other dishes. A flick of her wand sends them flying towards the kitchen. Davina hesitates, then looks down at him. "People around here are tight-knit, blondie. They'll take Jake in because he's one of ours, but the rest of you…" Her gaze flicks over to Pansy and Althea, then back to the bar. "Don't piss anyone off, all right? We might fight with each other, but if you say the wrong thing, you'll have the whole damn town after you." 

Draco leans back in his chair, that nervous tension rising up again. "Understood," he says, and Davina just looks at him for a long moment before turning away. 

"And don't make me regret any of this," she says over her shoulder. "Otherwise I'll send the goddamn Robichaus after you."

Maybe she ought to, Draco thinks. He's curious about the pull the Robichaus seem to have over the wizards in Thibodaux. There's something there that he doesn't quite understand, and it worries him, reminds him of the families he'd grown up with--grown up in, really--who'd tried to control wizarding society. He watches Davina go back to the bar, laugh at one of the regulars who staggers up, his glass in hand. Davina waves him away, tells him to go the hell home to his wife, and when the man starts to bluster angrily, she lays a hand on his shoulder, murmurs something Draco can't make out. The man's posture changes, shrinks, like air out of a balloon. A moment later, he leaves, a friend at his side. 

"Get him home safe, Joey," Davina calls after them, and as she turns back to the bar, her gaze meets Draco's, holds it, before she walks away. 

Curious, Draco thinks, and he lifts his glass to his mouth again. 

A moment later Blaise is pulling out the chair Davina'd just been in. "What was that about?" he asks, and for some reason, Draco doesn't want to tell him. 

"Cookery, mostly," Draco says, and he hates how easily the lie rolls off his tongue. Blaise frowns at him, but he doesn't push it. Not for now at least, and Draco's relieved by that. He wants to talk to Harry first, wants to keep Nathalie Fontenot away from Durant. To be honest, Draco doesn't know why; he just has a gut feeling that tells him he wants to follow this lead on his own, and he'd learnt as an Auror to trust that instinct. His being an Unspeakable now isn't going to change that. He looks over at Blaise. "Still angry at Durant?"

"No," Blaise says, and he reaches over, takes Draco's Guinness from him and lifts it to his mouth. "How was his grandfather?"

Draco can't blame him his curiosity. "Odd," he says after a moment. "There's definitely a strange dynamic between the two of them. Not as if they hated each other." He considers. "More like they didn't really trust one another." Draco frowns, thinking of the tangle of emotions he'd felt from Durant whilst sitting across the table from him in Étienne Fontenot's kitchen. "I got the feeling his grandfather didn't care for his sexuality." And that's something Draco can understand, that fury at being rejected by his father for who he was, for something Draco couldn't change about himself. He looks over at Blaise. "Has he said anything to you?"

Blaise doesn't answer at first, then he shakes his head. Draco thinks he's lying as well, but he knows Blaise well enough not to press him about it. Whatever secrets they're keeping from each other, Draco knows it's for a reason, and he's glad he grew up in the Slytherin common room where that was understood. Sometimes he finds Harry's Gryffindor sensibilities so damned frustrating. His gaze slides towards Harry, still at the bar talking to Durant. Draco wonders if he should be jealous about that, but he's not. Whatever Harry and Durant had, it's in the past now, and even that flash of bitterness about Harry Durant had thrown in his head earlier today doesn't really bother Draco. That hadn't really been about Durant's relationship with Harry, Draco knows. It'd been Durant's anger at whatever his grandfather's said about who he fucks. And that's all too familiar to Draco. 

They sit quietly together for a moment, and then Blaise shifts in his chair, turning to drape his arm across the back of it. He looks over at Durant, and then he says, "Mother's disappointed in me." 

Draco's surprised by that. Olivia worships the ground Blaise walks upon, even if her son can't see she does. He pulls his pint glass back across the table and takes a sip. "Why?"

Blaise breathes out, his gaze still on Durant, and Draco watches him, sees the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his mouth opens. Draco wonders if Blaise knows how he feels about Durant, or if he's still trying to pretend it's nothing but sex between the two of them. It's not as if Draco hasn't gone through the same struggle this summer. He looks over at Harry, and the nervous flutter in his stomach fades, a swell of something steadier taking its place. Harry's his rock, Draco knows, and he doesn't know what he'd do without him. He knows Harry's still upset about the _Prophet_ article. They've all avoided bringing it up today. As far as Draco knows, Durant hasn't even been told. And that's Harry, really. Inspiring such devotion in the whole lot of them that they want to protect him, to keep him distracted from what might be going on in London. 

Merlin but Draco misses Seven-Four-Alpha. They're still part of him, even if he's off the team. Draco knows they always will be, in a way. 

He looks over when Blaise says, "Mother's angry about Jake."

"I thought Olivia liked him." Draco frowns, lifts his glass again. "It's not because your grandfather thinks he's decent?"

Blaise laughs at that, but it's bitter and sharp. "I wish." He turns in his chair, his hands clasped on the table. "She thinks he's my mate."

Draco stills, his fingers still curled around his glass. "She thinks what?"

"You heard me." Blaise snaps his fingers Draco's way. Draco pushes the Guinness across the table; Blaise picks it up and drains it, setting the glass down with a thump. "You can't tell anyone."

"I wouldn't." Draco thinks he needs a goddamned firewhisky now. He and Blaise have talked a time or two about the whole Veela mate issue. Blaise had always laughed it off before now, said he never expected that sort of shit, that he was happy going through life bouncing from relationship to relationship because who the hell found their soulmate anyway? They'd agreed that was rubbish, those sorts of relationships didn't exist. And Draco still thinks that, in a way. Harry's not his soulmate. He doesn't want to put that sort of pressure on what they have, what they might be to each other. The very thought of it makes his blood run cold. He looks over at Blaise. "Your _mate_ , though?"

Blaise runs a thumb up the side of the empty pint glass, staring down into it. A thin remnant of foam slides down the inside, bubbles popping as it hits the bottom. "She's not wrong," he says, and Draco can barely hear him. He bites his lip, then looks up at Draco. "I think he is."

Shit. Draco leans back in his chair, runs his hands over his face. His gaze slides over to the end of the table, to Pansy laughing at something Althea's just said. She's not paying any attention to them. He looks back at Blaise. "Have you told him?"

"No." Blaise rests his elbows on the edge of the table. He presses his knuckles to his lips, then he says, "You and Mother are the only ones who know."

Draco feels like he might sick up. He doesn't want this sort of responsibility. "Blaise," he starts to say, and then he falls silent. They look at each other for a long moment. "Fuck," Draco says finally, and Blaise gives him a thin smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You're genuinely buggered, my friend."

"Oh, don't I know." Blaise drops his hands to the table. He looks miserable. "And the fucking hell of it is…" He draws in an unsteady breath, then says, his voice a faint quaver, "I think I love him." 

And Draco doesn't have to ask the difference. A mate, well, that can potentially just be sexual, can't it? Draco knows some Veelas find mates with whom they share sexual chemistry, and then from that they develop deeper bonds, ones that last a lifetime or longer. Sometimes it's that simple. Falling in love with someone's an entirely other thing. Draco knows that from his own experience. He shakes his head, reaches out and touches Blaise's hand for a moment, just long enough for Blaise to look up at him. "You'll be all right," Draco says. He hopes that's the truth. He's not certain of it, though. 

"But will I really?" Blaise presses his lips together, and he looks back at Durant. He can't seem to keep his gaze away from him, and Draco understands that as well. Bad luck, he wants to say, but that's too flippant for what Blaise's going through. 

"Fuck," Draco murmurs, his own eyes drawn to Harry. "We need a bottle of Ogden's to get through the two of them, don't we?."

"A case, maybe," Blaise says, his voice grim. "Or a whole bloody distillery."

They sit together, both of them looking back at the bar where their boyfriends are laughing, and Draco has to wonder if either one of them will truly be all right after any of this. He's not certain any longer. Draco lets out a small, unhappy sigh. 

If Draco's brutally honest with himself, maybe he never actually was.

***

"All right, octopus hands," Harry says with a laugh as he tries to open the door to his and Draco's hotel room. Draco's pressed against him, his fingers skimming up Harry's back, then down again, and Harry's skin prickles with want at the featherlight touch through the cotton of his shirt. "Jesus, Draco." He steps back, bats Draco's hands away as he frowns down the empty hallway. "Anyone could come out here."

Draco hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Harry's jeans, pulling him closer. "Maybe I don't care." Harry can smell the faint whiff of stout on Draco's breath. He'd been watching him from the bar for half the night, waiting for this chance to take him back to their hotel room. There are things they need to talk about, pieces of the case Harry wants to discuss with Draco because he trust him more than anyone else, but right now Harry can't bloody well think straight, not with Draco squirming against him like this.

"How many pints did you have?" Harry fumbles with the lock behind him, turning the key as Draco leans in, kissing the angle of Harry's jaw. Harry wraps an arm around Draco's waist, opening the door and pulling Draco into the room with him. He doesn't know what the fuck Draco's doing, but there's a part of Harry that really rather likes it. Fuck but he hopes Draco hasn't had too much to drink, because he wants to throw Draco across one of those beds and tease his clothes off until Draco's gasping and begging beneath him. He flicks on the light switch to the right of the door, and the lamps glow, pushing back the shadows of the room.

"Just three," Draco says, his fingers tangling in Harry's hair, "but Blaise drank part of one, so I hardly think it counts." His tongue flicks lightly against Harry's earlobe. "Besides, you know I could drink you under the table if I wanted."

Harry's not quite certain about that, but he kicks the door closed, then reaches down and grabs Draco's arse, lifting him up. Draco wraps those long legs of his around Harry's hips. "I don't know how up for things you'll be," Harry says, carrying Draco the few steps towards the beds. "What with all that spicy food you ate tonight."

At that, Draco slaps a palm against Harry's shoulder, hard enough to sting. "Don't be crass, Potter." 

But Harry knows he's not wrong from the sideways look Draco gives him as he ducks his head. Draco always hates Harry reminding him of those sorts of things, but Harry's bottomed enough to know damned well when having the stuffing fucked out of you isn't an option. He drops Draco on the bed, letting him bounce at the end. "I could suck you off instead," Harry offers, and Draco makes a face at that. Harry pushes him back against the mattress, leaning over. "What?" Harry asks. "Not good enough for you?"

Draco's already toeing off his shoes. They drop to the floor with a soft thud, then another, and Draco spreads his thighs wider, his fingers settling on the swell of his prick through his trousers. "It's boring," Draco says. His thumb circles along his flies, and Harry bites his lip, watching him. Draco's hair's tousled against the bedspread, gleaming gold in the lamplight. He looks up at Harry, his cheeks already a bit flushed. Harry can see the pink of Draco's nipples through the thin cotton of his shirt, and bloody fuck, his boyfriend is gorgeous, isn't he? It's about to drive Harry mental, really, not being able to touch Draco the way he usually does. This is the first contact they've had in hours because they've had to be so fucking careful in public, and Harry's not used to that. Not any more. 

"Let's be wicked," Draco says, hooking a socked heel behind Harry's arse, sending Harry tumbling forward against him. He slides his arms around Harry's shoulders, plays with Harry's hair. "It's this place, you know." His voice has a petulant tinge to it, and Harry pulls back, looking down at him. Draco's brows are drawn together. "They don't like our sort, I think."

"Brits, you mean?" Harry asks lightly. He knows what Draco's saying, but he wants to be careful, even as Draco frowns up at him. 

"Don't be thick." Draco lets his hands slip down Harry's shoulder, his fingers curling around Harry's biceps. "Poufs, arse bandits, or whatever the hell slur they call us in this country." He looks away. "Durant's grandfather hates that part of him, you know. I can only imagine what he'd have said if he knew you were sitting there at his table, having had intimate carnal knowledge of both of us."

And that explains part of the way Draco's acting, Harry thinks. "Not everyone around here's like that," he says gently. "The Presbyterian church in town has a rainbow flag flying in front of it, after all, and Jake was saying tonight there's a gay bar down Canal Street we should all go to." He knows it's not easy to be queer outside of big cities, here or in villages in Britain, for that matter. It's hard to feel as if you're alone, as if you're different from everyone else. Christ, doesn't Harry know that himself. He'd struggled with it for years before he'd broken up with Ginny. Still, he's pretty certain there are people in Thibodaux who're doing their damnedest to be out, to live a queer life however they can, and he doesn't think he and Draco should be glossing over their existence. 

Draco's quiet for a moment. "That helps," he says, but he's still not looking at Harry. 

Harry shifts, nudges Draco's knee aside with his own. "What's going on in your head?" His voice is soft, and he watches as Draco draws in a shaky, uneven breath. "You seem really tense."

"It's hard," Draco says after a moment. His eyes close, his lashes are pale and long against his cheek. "I felt…" He breaks off, bites his lip, and then his eyes flutter open and he's looking up at Harry. "Durant left because of this. Because his family was ashamed--"

"Not all of them were." Harry knows some of this story, if not all of it, but this was the one part of Thibodaux Jake talked openly about. He smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead. "His father's family never cared. They still don't. The Fontenots? I mean, Étienne can be a real twat, sure, but Jake left for other reasons too. It wasn't just because he's gay." He lets his chest rest against Draco's. "What's this about? I don't think you're that concerned about Jake's family."

Draco's silent, and he turns his head, looking over at the other, empty bed. "No," he says finally, his voice barely a whisper. "It's just…" He trails off, then he sighs, looks back at Harry. "I suppose it's bringing up things about my father." He swallows; Harry can see the stretch of his throat when he does. "The moment I realised I was bent and that meant I was never going to be good enough for him." He waves his hand towards the window. "For any of them."

Harry's heart aches. "That's not true," he says, and then when Draco won't look at him, Harry touches Draco's face, turning it back towards Harry. "And who gives a _fuck_ what any of the them think? You're you, and I'm me, and whatever we do in this room--or anywhere, for Christ's sake--they don't get a fucking say over. Do you understand?" He looks down into Draco's troubled grey eyes. "Don't let those sort of people matter, baby." Harry drags a thumb over the swell of Draco's bottom lip. "Not even the memory of your dad."

Draco closes his eyes, breathes out, and then he nods. "All right." When he looks back at Harry, his face softens. He reaches up, brushes Harry's fringe back from the rims of his glasses. "I'll try." 

And that's the best Harry can hope for, he thinks. "Do you want to talk more about Lucius?" Harry asks, almost hesitantly, and he's surprised by the fierceness that crosses Draco's face. Draco's silent for a moment, and then he puts his hand on Harry's chest, pushing him away carefully. Harry sits back on his haunches, looking down at his boyfriend a bit warily. "Draco," he says, and then he stops as Draco shifts beneath him. 

"What I want," Draco says, his fingers going to the buttons on his shirt, sliding them through one by one as he watches Harry's face, "is for you to tie me up on this bloody bed here and suck my brain out of my cock, if you think my arse isn't ready for a pounding." He pulls his shirttails from his trousers, then rolls his body up just enough to wriggle his arms out of his sleeves. "Think you're up for that, Potter?" The look he gives Harry is sly but a bit uncertain, and a wave of lust goes through Harry. 

He meets Draco's gaze with a fierceness of his own. "Might be." Harry reaches for the shirt that Draco's balled up in one hand, throws it aside. It lands somewhere on the floor. Harry doesn't really give a damn where. He gestures with his chin. "Arms over your head, then, Malfoy."

Draco smiles and shifts lazily, letting Harry watch him as he stretches himself across the coverlet, all pale skin and rosy flush. His long arms drape against the headboard, and Harry pulls his wand from his own trousers. 

"You sure about this?" Harry asks, but he can already see the swell of Draco's prick rising again. 

"Definitely." Draco licks his bottom lip, leaving it wet and glistening in the light from the bedside lamp. "I may be a slight bit tipsy, but I am utterly and enthusiastically consenting to you tying me up in a hotel room and doing whatever the hell you want with me, Harry."

Harry's mouth tugs up at one corner. "Well, regretfully, I can't do everything, given your dietary habits tonight," he says, and Draco kicks his arse lightly with one heel. 

"I already told you not to be vile." Draco wrinkles his nose. "Honestly, you're supposed to be romantic, Harry."

"Am I?" Harry lets the tip of his wand drag across Draco's chest, and Draco shudders, his mouth opening with a soft gasp. "I thought I was supposed suck your brain out through your prick. Doesn't seem terribly romantic to me."

Draco bites his lip so goddamned prettily. "Depends on how you do it." His fingers tap against the headboard. "You're terribly slow about all of this, though."

Harry laughs and leans forward, tucking the pillows further beneath Draco's shoulders as he contemplates the knot he wants. He can hear the soft, uneven huffs of Draco's breath, knows how excited Draco already is about this. Draco moves beneath him, his legs shifting against Harry's. 

"Oh," Draco whispers as Harry's hands smooth up Draco's bare forearms, the hilt of his wand pressing into Draco's skin. Draco's chest expands with a deep breath, that he then exhales, soft and warm against Harry's cheek. "The things I want you to do to me, Harry."

"I can imagine." Harry presses his face into the sweet-smelling tangle of Draco's hair. Part of him wishes he could take Draco like this, press into him, lose his prick in the warmth of Draco's body. But he knows Draco'd regret letting him later, and there are other things Harry can do, other ways he can make Draco shudder beneath him. He catches Draco's wrists, pulling them together and up as he says the binding spell, and then Harry fixes them against the worn, nicked surface of the upper edge of the headboard.

Draco's body stretches out beneath Harry, long and angular. "Fuck," he says, and he looks up at Harry, a flush spreading down his neck already as Harry strokes his fingers lightly down Draco's arms, over his chest, stopping a moment to pinch Draco's pink nipples lightly.

"So," Harry asks, "do you think you can be quiet, or would you like me to gag you?" He doesn't really mean the latter, but he knows the thought of it turns Draco on sometimes. Harry watches the shift of Draco's shoulders as he tests the knot, making sure he's in a good position, one that won't hurt him. Draco's thighs are splayed open, and Harry can't wait to slide down them, to bare and lick the long, elegant arches of Draco's feet. 

"I want everybody to hear us for ten miles around." Draco's pupils are wide, his grey eye dark with lust.

Harry laughs again, a bit dryly this time, and casts a Muffliato, ignoring Draco's frown. "Not an option." He drops his wand, reaches for the buttons on Draco's trousers. He undoes them, pulls at the zip, watching as Draco's flies slide open, the white of his y-fronts peeking through. "But I'll still make it good," he says, looking up at Draco again.

Draco shimmies his hips as Harry tugs his trousers down, one leg sliding out, then another. "Promises, Potter. Promises." Still his voice is breathless, and he lifts his arse off the bed when Harry drags his y-fronts off as well, leaving his swollen prick bobbing above his belly. Fuck, Harry thinks. No one looks as good naked as Draco does. Not anyone that Harry's ever slept with before, Jake included. He lets his fingertips skim across Draco's thighs, brush the softness of his sac. Draco's long, ruddy prick twitches, the head already leaking, and Harry's mouth waters at the thought of taking it in, tasting Draco. He breathes out, trying to calm himself. He wants this to last, wants this to be good. Harry sits back, studying Draco. 

The length of Draco's body is astonishing, Harry thinks, taking in the delicacy of Draco's hip bones, the flare of his shoulders, the hollow of his long neck. His pulse is beating quickly--Harry can see the faint movement beneath the soft skin.

"Please," Draco says, the word barely a breath in the silence of the room. 

Harry lets his hands settle on Draco's knees, heavy and warm. Draco looks up at him, licks his lip. Harry knows how much Draco wants this, how much he needs this. Harry smiles at him, then he shifts, sliding off the bed.

Draco makes a whimpering little noise of complaint. "Where are you going?"

But Harry doesn't answer. Not yet at least. He stands at the foot of the bed, and he watches Draco, studies the way Draco moves, his body shifting over the coverlet, his hips rolling into the mattress, his shoulders pressing into the pillows. Slowly, silently, Harry takes off his shirt, and drops it to the floor, and at the soft rustle of cotton against the worn wooden planks, Draco stills, lifts his head to watch Harry. "I did this for you already," Harry says, and he knows Draco's thinking about Saturday morning, about the way that Harry'd stripped for him in Andromeda's spare room. 

"You did," Draco says, and his voice is a bit rough. He watches as Harry undoes his jeans, pushes them down, kicking them off along with his trainers. Harry's pants follow, and he stands there for a moment as Draco looks at him, his eyes wide, heated. 

"A bit of all right?" Harry says, with a smile. He leans down to tug off his socks; when he stands back up, he reaches out to pull Draco's off as well, tossing them over his shoulder. 

Draco clears his throat. "A bit," he manages to say. He flexes his bare toes.

Harry reaches back across the bed for his wand, letting his forearm brush against Draco's prick. "Do you mind a touch of spell-related stimulation?" Harry's had the occasion in the past to get rather good at sensory spells, with Jake and other more temporary lovers, and he's been dying to try them out on Draco. He doesn't want to go too far--he knows that Draco's a bit intoxicated tonight, and really, they're far too tired and jet-lagged for an epic session of stimulation. Still, Harry's feather spell can be cast quickly, and that's more than enough for Draco tonight, he thinks.

There's a moment when Harry thinks Draco's going to object, but then Draco's lips curl into a smile. "All right," he says. "Show me what you have."

And that's a challenge Harry doesn't want to avoid. He casts the spell non-verbally, curling his wand in the movement to control the intensity. The result is instantaneous: Draco's hips buck up and the muscles of his stomach shudder under the invisible stimulation from the spell. 

"Oh," Draco says, his voice a bit higher than normal, and he bites his lip, giving himself into the sensation. 

"All right?" Harry asks, and Draco just nods. 

"More," Draco manages to get out after a moment. He's breathing hard, and the flush on his neck is spreading down across his shoulders, onto his chest. 

Harry guides the motion of the spell along Draco's collarbone, across his nipple, and down to the ridge of his hipbone again, stroking in waves of sensation. Harry remembers what this feels like, that soft, almost impossible touch against his skin, and he reminds himself to suggest to Draco later that he might like to try it blindfolded. Carefully, Harry avoids the slick hardness of Draco's cock, erect and jutting from his quivering belly, and, with a slow sweep of his wand, Harry strokes the feather spell down Draco's long, long leg, across the tops of his feet to the other leg, and then back up. 

Gooseflesh breaks out across Draco's thighs, and he moans softly, his gaze finding Harry's. "Fuck. Oh. That's fucking fantastic."

 _No,_ Harry thinks, _you're fucking fantastic._ He steps to the side of the bed as Draco's body twists beneath each careful flick of Harry's wand, watches Draco's hands splay across the headboard, the muscles in his arms tensing as Harry traces fine spirals of shivers across Draco's skin over and over and over again. He cries out, arches up, shuddering at every touch. To see Draco like this, to know the pleasure he's giving him--Harry's nearly overcome with the intensity of the intimacy himself. He loves Draco, needs him, wants to pleasure him in every way he possibly can.

It's only when Draco's gasping, begging, almost dissolved that Harry sets his wand aside. He leans over the edge of the bed, catches Draco's ankle with his fingers, lifting it to plant the first kiss to the arch of Draco's foot. His body's angled carefully this time so as not to brush against any other part of Draco's skin. Harry wants to worship Draco, to let him know how cherished he is. And so Harry drags his mouth up Draco's calf, kissing and nipping at the skin, licking across Draco's knee, ghosting his breath along Draco's inner thigh. Then he crawls onto the bed, leans over to Draco's other side, his mouth on Draco's opposite thigh, only his lips brushing Draco's skin until Draco's moaning softly, his legs moving, trying to press up against Harry's body. Harry shifts, his teeth nipping across the jut of Draco's hip, his kisses brushing across Draco's ribs.

"Circe," Draco chokes out, his breath coming in ragged pants, his eyes closed. His fingers are twined together, tight, his knuckles white as the binding charm holds his hands against the headboard. "Circe, _Harry._ "

Harry stops, settles back, stretched out alongside Draco, leaning on his elbow. "Is there something you'd like?"

Draco's eyes open and he looks at Harry, his gaze impossibly liquid. "Suck my cock." His voice is raw and hoarse, almost trembling.

"Well, when you ask so nicely." Harry doesn't move. He's waiting. Watching. Perhaps it's cruel, he thinks, but Draco needs this. Something inside of Harry knows this, without a doubt. 

"Are you expecting me to beg?" Draco's voice is thin, reedy, and Harry can tell he's close to breaking.

"Yes." 

There's a flash of something in Draco's eyes, and Harry can see Draco's breath catch in his chest, can see Draco's jaw clench. And then Draco breathes out and his voice is low when he says, "Harry, would you be so kind as to fellate me until I forget my own name? I'd be much obliged." The look he gives Harry is almost vicious. 

Despite the obvious sarcasm in Draco's request, Harry can hear the need beneath. He smiles, slow and easy, and he slides down Draco's gorgeous lean hips to his much neglected, beautifully pink, deliciously slick prick.

Draco twists and keens with the first touch of Harry's mouth, and Harry doesn't bother to start slow, not now, but instead swallows half of Draco's length in one slide, his hands pressing Draco into the mattress to keep his hips from bucking.

"Fucking finally," Draco breathes out.

Harry's so goddamned hard, his body past responding to the thick length of Draco's prick in his mouth, the tang of sweat, the sweetly sharp slickness around Draco's slit. He mouths at Draco's foreskin, taking Draco's prick in further until he's opening his throat, letting his body shift around Draco, changing the angle and breathing on the upstroke. His throat clenches around Draco, and Draco keens, his hips twisting beneath Harry's hands. 

"Merlin, Harry." Draco's arching his shoulders into the pillows, trying so hard to fuck Harry's throat. "Don't stop."

Harry has no intention of that. He bobs over Draco's body, keeping his balance with his arms pinning down Draco's hips, his body eager for the sting of Draco's prick in his throat, the clench when he goes too far down. It's a test of intent, a solitary slide of Harry slowly willing inches to fold into his body, and Harry's lost in it. He forgets almost everything around them, responding only to the huffs of Draco's breath, the throbbing of his own cock as it presses into the coverlet, the slick hardness of Draco's prick sliding between his lips.

And then Draco shouts, his body jerking beneath Harry's, and Harry swallows, bitter spunk dripping out of his mouth, falling onto Draco's skin, slick droplets running down his own chin. He sucks Draco through the spasms, only pulling back when the last bit of come is sucked out of Draco's softening prick. Harry lets Draco's cock slip from his lips, wipes the smeared spunk off his stubbled jaw. 

Fuck, Harry thinks, looking down at Draco, still sprawled limply, gasping and trembling. Harry's never seen anyone so bloody beautiful. He can't believe he's allowed to touch him, much less claim him as his own. There's something ethereally wild about Draco's beauty, something that's almost uncanny, almost impossible even.

And then Harry's on his knees over Draco, his hand clenched around his own hard, wet prick. Draco's undone beneath him, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his wrists still tied over his head. "Please," Draco says, and at that ragged request, Harry'd move the whole bloody world.

Harry arches over Draco, stripping his own cock ruthlessly, letting the shivering spunk-smeared expanse of Draco's belly tip him over the edge, the softening slouch of Draco's spent prick against his slick thigh. His vision narrows and with one last, tight stroke, Harry's prick pops over Draco, his own spunk shooting across Draco's belly in spurts, hitting the coverlet near Draco's armpit. Draco's laughing then, soft and bright and gasping in the silence of the room, and Harry's clenched in almost unconscious pleasure, his entire body taut, until the shudders take his muscles, sending him falling to the mattress. Harry lies next to Draco, loosening the binding spell almost unconsciously. He reaches up to help Draco rub the sensation back into his arms, pulling them down carefully as Draco winces, then spells the coverlet and them both clean.

"Better?" Harry asks, curling himself around Draco's loose, limber body. 

"Definitely less tense." Draco's soft and warm against Harry's shoulder. He yawns, presses his face against Harry's chest as he breathes out. Harry can feel Draco relax into him. "We should do that again."

"Always glad to oblige," Harry says, half-sunk himself in exhaustion. Now that he's had his release, the exhaustion from their travel is catching up with him again, oblivion nipping at his heels.

Draco shifts beneath the covers, turning his back to Harry, his hair spilling out over the pillow, tickling Harry's nose. It's odd, Harry thinks, to feel this comfort here, lying in this too small bed with Draco halfway across the world from the warmth of their bedroom at Grimmauld Place. "I love you," Draco murmurs, and Harry's heart clenches. 

"Always," Harry whispers against the nape of Draco's neck, his arm draped over Draco's side. As long as he has Draco with him, Harry thinks, everything will be all right.

Slowly, steadily, he lets sleep claim him.

***

"Long day," Pansy says as she drops down on the edge of her bed. Althea's in the bath, washing her face; Pansy toes off her loafers, kicking them across the room. They land beside her satchel.

"What was that?" Althea calls out over the rush of water at the sink.

Pansy sighs. "Nothing." It feels odd to be sharing a hotel room, she thinks. They hadn't done that in New York, but she supposes back then the Ministry was paying for their rooms. Here they're on their own, Robards had made that clear, and Pansy's smart enough to know what all of them are tiptoeing around. This isn't just about their case any longer. Tom Graves had changed the scope of everything when he'd walked into the Head Auror's office yesterday alongside Hermione Granger. What they're doing here could bring down a foreign government, and if they're caught doing it, they could face charges of espionage. 

And there's not an Ice Mouse's chance in Ibiza that Saul Croaker will support them if that happens. Shacklebolt might, but if MACUSA's out for blood--and Pansy can only assume any American government controlled by Aldric Yaxley would be--then they could lose everything. Their jobs. Their freedom. 

Maybe even their lives. 

But none of them have been thinking about that. Or at least not admitting to doing so. They're here because Jake Durant asked them to be, and there's a part of Pansy that resents him for doing that, but she knows they hadn't a choice. He's one of theirs now, in his own odd way, and Pansy'll go down fighting for him, just as she would for her boys, or the guv, or Althea even. 

Pansy looks over at the open door to the bath. She can see Althea in the mirror, bending over the sink as she splashes water over her face, her shirt off, the white straps of her bra digging into her pale shoulders. Althea doesn't have a lot of cleavage, not really, but Pansy lets her gaze slide down the reflection, over the small swell of her tits in the thin cotton. Althea's chest is freckled, ever so slightly, and Pansy wouldn't have expected that. It makes her mouth go dry, and she looks away, her face heating. Pansy'd kill someone for watching her like this. It's not right of her to do it to Althea, whatever sexual crisis she might be having. 

"Fuck," she whispers, and she pushes herself off the bed, walking over to squat beside her satchel and pull out the pale blue tank top and linen pyjama trousers she'd brought to sleep in. It only takes her a moment to shuck her jeans and t-shirt off, dropping them into the satchel along with her bra. She thinks about taking off her knickers, like she normally would, but it feels odd, so she keeps them on. The water stops in the bath, and she hears Althea moving around, dropping something on the tiled floor and swearing softly. The door creaks open just as Pansy tugs the tank top down over the swell of her tits, and she reaches for the pyjamas, stepping into them.

"Oh," Althea says from behind her. "Sorry. I thought…" Althea trails off, and Pansy pulls her pyjamas up over her hips, suddenly grateful she'd kept her underwear on. She hadn't minded flaunting her bra earlier this afternoon, but Pansy doesn't think she has it in her to flash her bare arse at Althea tonight. She tightens the ribbon that draws in the waist, tying it in a loose knot as she turns around. Althea's watching her, an odd look on her face. She's changed herself, into a t-shirt and shorts that show off her long, muscular legs, and her clothes are folded, clutched in her left hand. Her hair's loose around her shoulders, and Pansy's not certain she's ever seen it like that. It's longer than Pansy'd thought, falling past Althea's shoulder blades, shiny and dark, and Pansy wants to run her fingers through, wants to know if it's as soft as it looks. Althea swallows, says, "The toilet's yours if you want."

Pansy knows Althea's looking at her breasts. She's caught her doing so all day, but then again, the guv had spent half the night trying not to look down her shirt, as had Blaise and Durant, so Pansy's not really certain that means anything. At least Draco hadn't given a damn, but really, Draco's seen her tits more than once in various states of deshabille, so she supposes he's properly bored with them. 

But now, here, Pansy doesn't know whether to fold her arms across her chest or not. She settles for halfway doing it, one arm over her nipples, the other propped up against her wrist, the back of her hand pressed to her cheek. She feels a right fool, and she thinks she might have had one too many beers because for a moment it seems like a bloody good idea to walk over, push Althea back against the wall, and kiss her until they're both gasping and wet. 

It wouldn't take much for that, Pansy thinks, at least not for her, and it'd be a spectacularly awful idea, of that much she's certain. 

So instead Pansy turns back to her bed, pulling down the thick quilt. "Still not used to the time difference." It's true, actually. Her body thinks it's three in the morning, not nine at night. She's exhausted, from that and from travelling, and she's acting utterly ridiculous, or at least that's what she's telling herself. She crawls into bed, pulling the sheets back over her shoulders. "Mind getting the lights?"

They go off a moment later, and she can hear the creak of mattress springs as Althea crawls into her own bed. 

"Good night, Pansy," Althea says, her voice soft, sleepy, and Pansy just exhales, her body feeling as if it's on fire from those three words. 

It takes forever for Pansy to fall asleep, listening to the steady sound of Althea's breath in the shadowed silence of the room. When she finally does, she dreams of dark hair and freckled breasts and eager kisses that shatter her body into shimmering fragments, a myriad of stars sparkling in the depths of dark brown eyes.

 _Thea,_ she whispers in her sleep. 

And in the darkness, someone hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The next installment should be out on February 18. Apologies for the delay in posting, but once again RL and work are taking over next weekend. *shakes fist at the universe*


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Our Team wake up together, there are multiple showers, and Althea is confronted with a mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO EVERYONE!!! 
> 
> This is one year to the day from the original Special Branch fic, the posting of [Can't Get You Out of My Head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9826184) for hp-kinkfest on Tumblr and LiveJournal. From this tiny fic and its ambivalent-but-promising ending a mighty series grew. 
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who's ever read any piece of this series, especially those who've worked their way through the roughly 966K words of this ridiculous behemoth. (I mean, what the goddamn fuck, really. I can't even believe that word count; sometimes I side-eye myself.) For those of you who've been reading along this past year, I am so incredibly grateful to you. Without getting too weepy here, I began this fic a month after ending my radiation treatment for cancer and this universe really inspired my love of writing again--something that I'd been worried I'd lost while I was sick. So thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your encouragement this past year and your willingness to love these foolish characters as much as I do. 
> 
> Special debts of gratitude to sassy-cissa, who could not be more awesome and who always comes through even when I'm ridiculously behind, and noeon, who has been here from the beginning, writing policy documents, charting lineages, making up names and places, and helping this piece live as it does. Much love to them and to you all from a grateful author!

Harry wakes up to a persistent buzzing next to his ear. It takes him a moment of blinking sleepily in the dim light of the hotel room to realise it's his mobile, tucked beneath his pillow. 

"For Merlin's sake," Draco mumbles beside Harry, rolling onto his side and taking half the coverlet with him, "turn that bloody thing off."

To be honest, Harry'd love to, but it's not his alarm. He fumbles with the mobile, then sits up, the cool air sending gooseflesh across his bare chest. He answers the call with a raspy "Potter" that's half-swallowed by a yawn as he rubs his palm over his face. 

"Harry?" Hermione's voice echoes across the phone line. "Did I wake you?"

"Yeah." Harry squints at the clock on the table between the two beds, the red numerals glowing in the shadows. "It's just gone half-six." He swings his legs over the side of the mattress, ignoring Draco's annoyed huff of protest, and reaches for his glasses, set next to the clock. He slides them on, and the room shifts back into focus. It takes him a moment to remember that he'd texted Hermione the number for his new burner mobile yesterday afternoon.

"Oh." Hermione sounds a bit embarrassed, Harry thinks. "I thought it was half-seven."

"That's New York. Louisiana's another time zone behind." Harry stretches, pushing one shoulder forward with a soft grunt. Sleeping two to a small bed isn't the easiest, particularly given Draco likes to sprawl. Harry'd spent half the night with his arse hanging off the mattress. He supposes he could have moved over to the other bed, but he sleeps better with Draco pressed up against him, even if he wakes up in the morning with his back out of alignment. He sighs, rolling his neck. Something clicks back into place deep inside. "What's wrong?"

Hermione's quiet for a moment, and then she says, "We've located Dee and Burke."

And that's not what Harry expected, not really. He sits forward, his elbows pressing into his bare thighs, the mobile against his ear. "Where?" He lowers his voice, but he can feel Draco shift behind him, sitting up in the tangle of sheets. He glances back; Draco's frowning at him. _Dee_ Harry mouths, and the furrow between Draco's brow deepens. 

"In Crete, unsurprisingly," Hermione says. "And don't even get me started on why it's taken six bloody days to track them back to what basically amounts to Dee's house." She sounds disgusted, even from this distance, and Harry's mouth twitches up at the corners. He wonders how many Unspeakables she's already made cower this morning. "I mean, he wasn't entirely mad enough to show back up in his village with hundreds of Dementors in tow, but he and Burke seem to have colonised a small island off the Cretan coastline with them."

"How'd you find him?" Harry looks back as Draco crawls across the bed, settling behind him, one long, pale leg stretched out beside Harry's thigh. Draco leans forward, his arm slipping around Harry's waist, his body pressed against Harry's back, his skin soft and warm. Harry can feel the huff of Draco's breath against his neck, and it makes his skin prickle with want. 

Hermione laughs. "I sent Everrett and Awojobi to canvass Dee's village, half of which is utterly terrified of him, mind." And to be honest, Harry doesn't blame them for that. Barachiel Dee's an odd one, that's for damned certain. "I was hoping someone might know something, or at least give us some sort of lead we could go after. It took a while for anyone to even talk to us, but one of the younger fishermen admitted to seeing some odd things when he was out with his boat. After that, it wasn't terribly hard for us to find Dee."

"So you've brought the Dementors in then?" Harry trails his fingers along the inside of Draco's thigh, only to have them batted away. Still, Harry can feel the faint swell of Draco's prick against the small of his back, and he smiles. "What'd Burke have to say for herself?" And Draco stills at that, his hand curling over Harry's fingers. 

Silence crackles across the line for a moment, and then Hermione sighs. "They're still there." 

That admission surprises Harry. "You haven't gone after them?" 

"It's not as if we don't want to." Hermione sounds exasperated. "That's the whole point of me ringing you up, actually." She pauses for a moment; Harry can hear the rumble of traffic in the background, the blare of a lorry horn. 

"You're not in the office." Harry stands up, the mobile pressed to his ear. He's naked, and it feels strange to be having this conversation with one of his best friends with no clothes on, his prick swinging free as he walks over to his satchel where he'd tossed it on an armchair and fumbles in it for a pair of y-fronts. Draco moves to the edge of the bed, looking over at him, his frown creasing the corners of his mouth as he chews on his bottom lip. 

"This isn't exactly a conversation I want to have in the Ministry," Hermione says. She's quiet for a moment; there's a burst of music, bright and loud, that quickly fades into the sounds of the street, probably from a passing car, Harry thinks. Hermione sighs again. "I can't even begin to tell you how fucked up everything is right now, Harry. Croaker's trying to force Luxembourg's hand on all of this, make them go into Crete and clean up after Dee, and they're pushing back just as hard. No one's really leaping to go after a man with hundreds of Dementors at his disposal, it seems. Particularly not someone as canny as Barachiel Dee."

Harry leans against the wall, the y-fronts still crumpled in his hand. "So they're just going to leave him be?" Harry doesn't like the sound of that, not really. It's not as if he's unsympathetic to the plight of the Dementors, but he also doesn't entirely trust Barachiel Dee--or Muriel Burke for that matter, whatever Draco might think of her. And he really doesn't fucking care for the idea of either of them having what amounts to an army of Dementors at their beck and call. He rubs his thumb over the elastic waistband of his y-fronts, his gaze flicking towards Draco. "What's the plan?"

"I don't know," Hermione says, and Harry can hear the frustration in her voice. "Nadia's not sharing anything with me, much less the Ministry as a whole, because she thinks I'll bring it all back to Saul, who, by the way, is being a sodding idiot right now, digging his heels in just to spite Kingsley." She falls silent, and Harry wishes he could see her face. 

"How bad is it this week?" he asks, because he needs to know. The line crackles quietly between them for a long moment. 

"It's grim," Hermione says finally. "Tension's pretty high between the Ministry and Luxembourg. We're likely to face ICW sanctions fairly soon, Kingsley says, and he's not wrong. With everything that's happened this summer, I can't imagine that's not the next thing to come our way. Babajide Akingbade'd be a fool not to use this to make a political point. He hasn't forgiven us for Voldemort, after all."

Really, Harry thinks, the Supreme Mugwump's not exactly wrong on that score. The entire time Harry'd been in Luxembourg, he'd heard the whispering from political delegations across Europe about Britain's culpability in Voldemort's rise, and he doesn't disagree, to be honest. The same forces that allowed Voldemort to take control are still in play in the government; they haven't entirely been turfed out. Harry's not naive enough to think otherwise. Known Death Eaters may have been punished, in one way or another, but there were others who'd stepped back during the war, who'd let them take power, and Harry's not certain all of them were Imperiused the way some claim to have been. As much as Kingsley's tried to reform governmental practices, he's met enough resistance that Harry can't help but think there'd be some members of the Wizengamot who wouldn't mind the rise of another, more traditional government the likes of which the blood purists would prefer.

Not to mention others who'd like to use the tension between Britain and the ICW for their own political gain.

"Marchbanks will love all of that," Harry says. Sanctions by the ICW will play right into her hands, letting her point out the need to punish those families she thinks have disgraced Britain in international opinion. His gaze drifts over to Draco, who's still sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his bare thighs. He looks fragile and pale, his hair falling across his face. Harry wants to go over, wants to touch Draco's cheek, to lean in and kiss him, to tell him it will all be fine, whether or not either of them believe that.

Hermione snorts. "She's pushing for a vote on the Registry soon. Given the _Prophet_ 's on her side now, I don't know how much longer Kingsley can put her off. I met with him this morning behind Saul's back, and he's under fire, Harry. From all sides." Hermione's breath is a soft huff across the line. "And Saul's going to use that as best he can. He's been after Kingsley since that meeting last Wednesday, saying that the Minister doesn't understand the importance of national security and maybe we need someone who does." Her voice grows softer; Harry can barely hear her. "I'm worried, Harry. I don't know what Saul's going to do."

And Harry doesn't know what to say to that. He bites his lip, exhales. The cotton of his y-fronts is soft against his fingers; he twists the fabric over his thumb as he looks at Draco. They've been through so much in such a short time; even as Harry feels his life settle around him, conforming to the shape of Draco Malfoy in his house, his bed, his heart, he also feels the pull of the world around them, tugging at those fragile stitches that have been holding Harry together since the end of the war. It's been eight years since Voldemort's death, and yet the echoes of his presence are still reverberating throughout Britain. Harry can sense them; he knows Hermione can as well. And Harry's learnt since his childhood that things aren't always good and evil, that those labels get twisted in on themselves, that good can be used for evil in more ways than Harry would like to think, and that sometimes the world is more complex than what he'd known as a teenager. His gaze meets Draco's, then Draco looks away from him, and Harry wonders what his boyfriend can feel from him right now, what waves of emotions Harry's giving off. He wants to tell Draco everything will be all right, but Harry's not so certain that wouldn't be a lie. 

"Maybe it wouldn't be terrible," Harry says after a moment, not looking away from Draco, "if Luxembourg made a political point with all of this. Maybe it's what we need." He watches as Draco stands up, walks across the room to the bath, the long line of his pale back hunched in on himself.

A siren sounds in Harry's ear, the familiar blues-and-twos of a Muggle ambulance wailing, as Hermione says, "Maybe." She heaves a soft sigh. "There's change coming, Harry, and I don't know if it's one we'll like." She hesitates, then adds, "There's nothing good coming out of New York either. Graves' replacement, Wilkinson, had a diplomatic firecall yesterday evening with Gawain and Saul. Gawain told Kingsley that Wilkinson was nosing around Seven-Four-Alpha's involvement with the Dolohov capture, among other things, and it made him uneasy."

"What'd Gawain tell him?" Harry hears the shower go in the bath. His stomach twists; he doesn't like the idea of Wilkinson looking into his team. Not whilst they're here in the States, particularly. 

"Nothing that isn't on record between us and MACUSA," Hermione says. "And he didn't mention any of you being in the States right now. Gawain thinks Wilkinson's going to make a play to take Dolohov out of Luxembourg custody. That transport's happening today, and Saul's not best pleased, let me tell you."

Harry doesn't give a damn. "He's nothing to say about it, given Kingsley's signed off on the transfer." He lowers his voice, his gaze sliding to the closed door of the bath. "Let's just hope this one goes a little less murderously than the last did." 

"Luxembourg's taking extra precautions," Hermione says. "No Portkey cabin this time. Just one of those portals like the one I gave you, except it empties out from our holding cells into ones of their own. It should be good enough. The question now is whether or not MACUSA's going to claim custody as well. Not that it makes any bloody sense for them to do so, all things considered, but when has that ever stopped the Yanks when they wanted something?"

And that's where Harry thinks Hermione's wrong. They've already found ties between Dolohov and the Brighton Beach community in New York that link the bastard to Aldric Yaxley. Harry doesn't trust the new MACUSA regime not to cover that up--or try to, at least. 

"Nadia won't let them have Dolohov," Harry says, and he hopes that's true. He can't imagine Nadia Daifallah or anyone else from the Courts of Justice in Brussels would want the Americans interfering. MACUSA doesn't have a strong relationship with the ICW as it is; Harry thinks the Supreme Mugwump likes them less than he does the British Ministry. 

"I hope not." Hermione's quiet for a moment, then she adds, "Be careful, Harry. Saul's started to keep me in the dark about things, and I know it's because you and I are friends. He's been relying on Oscar Abbott more the past few days, and Oscar'll say yes to anything Saul wants. That frightens me."

Frankly, it frightens Harry, too. He doesn't like that Croaker's shutting Hermione out; she helps keep the Department of Mysteries in check. It's why Croaker's relied on her in recent years, why she's risen through the ranks so quickly, over the careers of lifelong Unspeakables. Hermione hasn't made friends that way, particularly among the older men who resent a young woman being promoted over them. She doesn't talk about it, but Harry knows. He's seen the way other Unspeakables look at her when they think her back is turned. But the department's needed her after the war, and Harry's heard enough about Oscar Abbott's toadying to know that having someone like him at Croaker's side isn't a good sign. 

Still, Harry thinks it's not just Hermione's friendship with him that's causing Croaker to pull back. Both he and Hermione--and Ron too--have been vocal about their support for Kingsley, ever since he was just a candidate for Minister. Croaker's damned aware of that, and if he's going after Kingsley the way Harry suspects he is, then Croaker's not going to want Hermione anywhere near his plans. "You've told Kingsley what's happening?" Harry asks, and he knows Hermione understands the undercurrents of his question. 

"It was mentioned," Hermione says, a bit dryly. "He doesn't trust any of this either, but he's refusing to act until Saul shows his hand."

And really, what else can Kingsley do? Harry knows he doesn't have choice. None of them do. Not yet at least. He sighs. "Keep me informed, yeah?"

"I rang, didn't I?" Hermione's laugh is soft and bitter. "Just watch yourself, Harry. There are things going on that I don't think any of us quite understand at the moment, but every sense I have is telling you to keep that bloody portal on you. We've no idea where Lestrange is. I've even taken Robson and Awojobi back to the temporal loop bolthole we know he used with Malfoy, just to see if we could find anything else to track. Nothing. If he's using another one to move around in, we don't know where or when it is, and even Luxembourg hasn't managed to crack Dolohov on any of that yet. So watch your back, yeah?" She hesitates, then adds, "All of you."

"We will," Harry says. He doesn't know what else they can do.

"All right." Hermione sighs. "I have to go back to the Ministry. If you need anything, ring me. Promise me that."

"I promise." It might not be one he can keep, but he'll try. 

When Hermione rings off, Harry closes his mobile, looking down at it with a frown. He feels unsettled now, discomfited in a way that he hadn't been even before leaving for Louisiana. His skin feels taut, his chest too compressed. He tosses his mobile on the bed, along with his y-fronts, wrinkled from his fingers. He needs Draco right now, needs to talk to him, needs to ground himself in Draco's touch, in the scent of his skin. He strides across the room to the bath; billows of steam roll out when he opens the door, fogging up Harry's glasses. Harry doesn't care. He takes them off, tosses them on the sink counter, then pulls the white shower curtain back. 

Draco's standing beneath the spray, his chest flushed by the heat, his hair plastered darkly to his head. Water drips from his chin, rolls over his collar bones. Merlin, but Draco's never so beautiful, Harry thinks, as when he's wet and looking at Harry like this, a bit defiant, a bit angry. 

"Good talk with my boss?" Draco asks, his voice clipped and sharp, and Harry steps into the bath with him, pushing Draco back against the slick tile. It reminds Harry of the first times they'd fucked, in the showers of the Auror training gym, and something flutters deep inside Harry's belly, hot and soft and needy. 

"Don't tell me you're narked because she called me instead," Harry says, and he lets his hands settle on Draco's hips. Draco doesn't push him away, even though he turns his head. "Come on." Harry strokes a thumb over Draco's hipbone, and Draco swallows. "What do you want her to have said?" Harry knows it's not just that. It's everything, the _Prophet_ , the Registry, the things George had said on Friday night. 

And Draco leans back against the tile, shifting so that Harry's beneath the wet heat of the shower spray. It feels good, pounding steadily against Harry's skin, and he can feel his anxiety not disappearing exactly but rather settling back, the tendrils of worry curling into themselves. When Harry's here with Draco, everything's better. He feels as if he can face the world again, as if it might not be as overwhelming as he thinks it is. Harry lets his hands smooth along the straight line of Draco's hips, up to his waist, and Draco breathes out at the touch, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments, his soft prick swelling just a bit, lifting up over the dark blond fuzz of his bollocks. 

"Granger's worried, isn't she?" Draco asks. "And she threw that worry on you." When he looks at Harry, his expression is annoyed. "They all do, as if there's something you could do other than what you're already trying."

Harry blinks. He wasn't expecting that. "She's just concerned that Kingsley--"

"Is going down?" Draco's mouth twists to one side. "You can't tell me this is news to you or her. Merlin, Harry, the moment Saul Croaker decided last week to go after the man, it was clear what was going to happen. That bloody _Prophet_ article was just the start of it--"

"I can't think about that," Harry says, his voice loud against the white-tiled walls. The water from the shower hits his shoulders, wetting the hair at the nape of his neck. "I have a job to do here--we all do." He looks at Draco, takes in the troubled frown that drags down the corners of Draco's lips. "Whatever's happening back home, we'll deal with it when we're done with all of this." His fingers slide across Draco's back, settling on the curve of Draco's arse as Harry pulls him closer. 

Draco leans against Harry; his hands grip Harry's hips. "This all ties together," he whispers against Harry's wet skin. "You know that. Yaxley. My uncle. MACUSA and the British Ministry." He looks up at Harry. "I don't understand--"

Harry kisses him, and Draco's breath is shuddery against Harry's mouth. When Harry pulls back, he studies Draco's unhappy face. "One day after another," Harry says, his voice gentle. It's how he'd made it through that last year of the war, not knowing if he'd be found by the Snatchers, if one wrong move would get not only him killed but Ron and Hermione as well. And then when Ron had left, and it'd been just him and Hermione for a while, they'd sat on the floor of their tent every night, hands twined together, terrified and uncertain, just trying to breathe, just trying to remind themselves that if they'd made through one day, they could last through one more. 

Really, Harry thinks, he needs to talk to Freddie. 

Draco rubs his thumbs over Harry's wet skin, making small circles. "Today then," he says, after a long silence, and he looks over at Harry. "We'll find this ridiculous artefact and go the bloody hell home?"

"I think we should definitely try," Harry says with a quiet laugh. His body's responding to Draco's touch, and he knows Draco can tell. "Might want to start with breakfast first."

And then Draco's pressed against Harry, the water running across their skin.

"Or maybe not," Harry says as Draco's teeth slide across the skin of his neck, and Draco laughs himself, a soft huff of breath across Harry's wet skin. 

"Are you hungry?" Draco presses his face into Harry's sodden hair, nips at his earlobe. Harry lets Draco pin him against the cold, slick tile, their bodies pressed together, and Harry can't think of anything but the way Draco feels against him, all soft, wet skin and hard muscle.

Harry draws in an unsteady breath, his prick swelling against the jut of Draco's hip. "Not particularly." He reaches out blindly to turn off the shower spray--no need to waste water when they're clearly just going to get messy again.

Draco leans back, his grey eyes bright and calculating as he holds Harry's gaze. "Well, then. Maybe breakfast can wait." He trails a finger along Harry's hip, as if sizing him up. "Which would mean, right now, you're all mine." His smile is sharp, feral. Keen, even, Harry thinks. And then Draco shifts closer again, his belly brushing against Harry's cock, as he says, his voice soft but commanding, "Not Granger's. _Mine._ "

Harry shivers, partially from the chill of the aircon against his wet skin but mostly from the raw look of want and possession written across Draco's face. His breath catches when Draco's hand reaches around, his fingers smoothing over Harry's hip, down to the curve of Harry's thigh, and Harry lets Draco touch him, twisting his body to let Draco's fingertips drag along the small of Harry's back, then back to the swell of his arsecheek, squeezing lightly. 

"Merlin," Harry says, and his voice sounds rough, almost disused to his ears. He swallows as Draco's thumb slides down into the depth of his crease. It's all he can do not to spread his thighs and arch his hips back, begging Draco to press into him. He tries to think, but he's hard now, the head of his prick pushing out from beneath his foreskin. Fuck, but Draco's touch can drive him bloody mental, and Harry doesn't bother to hide that thought. Draco's smile widens, and his other hand slides down Harry's belly, brushing lightly against the root of Harry's cock. Harry exhales, trying to keep himself in control. "We're going to have to be quick or the team might worry."

"The team are pretty decent at avoiding us." Draco raises an eyebrow at Harry, his smile quirking up a bit more at one corner. Harry wonders if Draco knows how bloody irresistable he looks as his fingers slip further down, wrapping around the fullness of Harry's bollocks. Harry bites his lip, sways forward just a bit, catching himself on the tiled wall with one hand. He shifts, his thighs widening just a bit as Draco's fingertips slide beneath the swell of his scrotum, the weight of his bollocks resting on Draco's palm. Draco's watching him, but Harry can see the way Draco's lips part just a bit, the faint flush that's spreading across Draco's collarbones, and he can feel the hard press of Draco's prick against his hip. Draco's voice is a bit breathy as he says, "They don't want to see us any more than we want to be seen."

It's not untrue, Harry thinks. And perhaps he ought to be a bit more embarrassed about that, but he doesn't give a damn. Frankly, it's their own bloody fault if they find them arse-naked and going at each other until they're shouting; Seven-Four-Alpha ought to know better than that by now. 

"So what did you have in mind?" Harry asks, and then he bites his lip when Draco's thumb slides further down his crease, brushes his arsehole, pressing lightly against the ring of muscle. The tip slides in, ever so slightly, and Harry breathes in sharply, the sound echoing through the silence of the bath.

Draco considers, his head tilted. "Given that our adventures last night were a bit restricted, I'd really like to fuck you." He licks his lip, his thumb twisting a bit further in. "I want to feel you coming around me, if that's all right."

And at that, Harry exhales a breath he didn't even know he was holding, his body hot and shuddery, clenching around Draco's thumb, his prick hardening even further against Draco's hand as it brushes against his length. Jesus, but Harry needs this even as much as Draco seems to.

"Oh, fuck, yes," Harry says. To hell with timeliness and team breakfasts--Draco's right here, right now, and he has a needy, uncertainty-masking-as-arrogant look on his face that makes Harry want to bend over yesterday. It's been five days since the last time he'd let Draco take him like this. That's too bloody long, Harry thinks. He touches Draco's cheek, lets his fingertips slide down the angle of Draco's jaw. "But it's going to have to be fast and dirty. The last goddamned thing I want is Zabini pounding on our door." He grimaces. "Or worse yet, Parkinson."

"She would be awful," Draco agrees, his eyes bright and happy. "Mustn't give her the chance, yeah?" He kisses Harry roughly, slapping at his hip, then steps out of the bath, looking back at him over his shoulder. The sight of him, long and lean and lanky, his pale skin still wet from the shower, takes Harry's breath away. "Get ready and come back to bed?" He looks a bit hesitant, as if he's afraid Harry might refuse, and then he glances away, his cheeks pinking ever so slightly. 

"I need my wand," Harry says, letting his gaze slide down Draco's naked body, as if he needs to memorise the way it looks here in the hotel bath, reflected in the mirror across from them. 

"Give me a moment." Draco's gone, the door left half-open. Harry can hear him moving in the room, and then Harry's wand comes sailing in, nearly dropping into the toilet before Harry can catch it. 

Still he manages, but he shouts out, "Overshot that a bit, Malfoy," to which he hears a faint _fuck you_ from the other room. Harry grins, shaking his head as he balances a foot on the edge of the bath, then flicks his wand towards his arse, the prep spells rolling from his tongue. They feel odd, as they always do, his body light and protesting slightly at the hollowness, the tingling sharpness of the cleaning spell. Still, it's worth it, he thinks, and he wonders how Muggles do this without magic. He can't imagine how much more difficult it must be; it's annoying enough that the spells don't always work the way they should. If they did, he'd have fucked the hell out of Draco last night. 

Harry washes his hands, dries them. He hasn't done a lubricaton spell, but if Draco wants that, he can cast it himself, Harry thinks. He'll never admit it to Draco, but his conjured lube's better than anything Harry can produce. 

When he comes back into the main room, Draco's standing at the foot of the bed. Harry walks in that direction, but Draco's headshake stops him. 

"No," Draco says, and he sounds a bit nervous. Harry can tell the moment Draco steels himself, his shoulders straightening, going back. "I've changed my mind. I want you over there."

Harry looks at the mirrored dresser Draco's gesturing at. It's smooth and broad, made of some sort of dark, gleaming wood, and it looks fairly sturdy. Harry considers saying no for a moment--he likes the idea of being shagged out on a proper bed, given that the last time Draco'd fucked him had been on Harry's office desk--but he gives in, shrugs. Whatever Draco wants, Harry supposes. They can always move wherever they need to be.

"All right." Harry walks over to the dresser. "How do you want me?"

Draco's quiet for a moment, and Harry glances back over at him. Draco's biting his lip, but he looks bloody gorgeous, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his prick bobbing out in front of him, hard and red, the tip sliding out of his foreskin, slick and wet. "Facing it," Draco says finally. "Arse out, Potter."

And that use of Harry's last name sends a shiver through Harry, makes him think of those early days when he and Draco were still learning each other's bodies. He shifts, positions himself, then leans forward, looking at his reflection in the mirror, his elbows propped against the wooden surface. He can see the door to the room behind him, and he hopes to bloody Merlin no idiot member of his team decides to blast it open with a spell in the next few minutes. Not that he thinks they would, but one never knows with this lot. Harry thinks about warding it shut, but then Draco's behind him, his hand on Harry's arse, his fingers slick with lube, and Harry stops thinking. 

"Wider," Draco says, and Harry spreads his ankles, braces his forearms on the wooden dresser top as Draco's fingers flick at his hole. The lube is cold, and Harry hisses at the touch. "Give it a moment," Draco says, as he works two fingers into Harry hastily, Harry's body stretching painfully around their thickness. Harry's head drops, and he breathes out, trying to make himself relax. 

Harry shifts, pushes his arse out. "Careful," he says, his voice cracking, when Draco's twist goes a bit too deep, his fingernail grazing Harry inside. Draco swears softly, then stops moving for a moment. Harry blinks through the pain. 

"All right?" Draco asks, softly, and Harry nods. 

"Go on." Harry arches his back, pushes against Draco's hand. His prick's softened a bit, but he knows it'll fatten up again. He's getting used to the feel of Draco inside of him again, stretching him out. And when Draco's fingers press deeper into Harry, the pain shifts, settles into something more pleasant, a faint, gentle burn that Harry can breathe through, that makes him feel full, open. "Fuck, that's good," Harry whispers, and Draco laughs, ever so softly, as his fingers withdraw.

"Watch yourself," Draco says, making Harry raise his head to look. Christ, but he's dishevelled already, his cheeks pink, his wet hair dripping onto the wooden surface. Draco's prick slides through Harry's crease, and Harry can feel it brush against his opening, the tip catching on the stretched skin. Harry looks at them both as Draco lines up behind him, biting his lip slightly in concentration, and really, it's the quiet huff of air that leaves Draco's mouth that makes Harry come undone, the look of surprise on Draco's face as he breaches Harry's body. 

Harry watches Draco as he feels his prick sinks into Harry. It's too fast--Harry's arse is protesting at the deep burn--but he pushes back, lets Draco set the pace, surrenders to it. He's shivering in the aircon, gooseflesh rising across his bare skin, and Draco's quick, sharp thrusts are picking up in speed, his cock pressing into Harry, hard and fast. Harry's body yields under Draco's, their skin slapping together, the rush of the fan and the huffs of their breath the only sound in the room beyond the faint traffic noise from the road outside. Harry groans, feeling one deep thrust all the way through him, and he scrabbles at the dresser surface, trying to hold on to something as Draco slams into him again. 

"Fuck," Harry says, and it echoes in the silence of the room. "Oh, God, _Draco._ "

And then Draco's palm slaps against Harry's arse, sharp and stinging, and it makes Harry jerk, the sudden thrill of it twisting through his body delightfully. Harry groans again, pushes himself back. "Please," he says, and his thighs are shaking, barely able to hold him up. 

"You'd best be quiet, Potter," Draco says, watching Harry's reflection in the mirror, and oh, how the unbridled fierceness of his gaze gets Harry going again, his whole body arching as Draco's hand rises again, striking the side of Harry's arsecheek with a loud crack. "There's no Muffliato, and the people here might hear you."

And this makes Harry shudder, makes him strain on his toes, pushing into Draco's thrusts. His body is open now, the slick slide of Draco's prick heavy inside him. Pleasure coils in Harry's gut, deep against his spine, the thought of being found here like this with his boyfriend's prick up his arse causing his pulse to flutter with danger and arousal. Clearly it's working on Draco as well, who's silent but thrusting savagely into Harry's body, grunting slightly with the effort of it, his fingers digging painfully into Harry's hips.

Harry comes first, with a loud cry that he doesn't care who hears, his spunk shooting against the wood of the dresser, dripping down to the floor. It's all going to need a good Scourgify, Harry thinks abstractly, his body clenching and shuddering around Draco's cock, his legs trembling, his knees going weak. 

"Oh, you. Oh, fuck." Draco's fingers dig into Harry's hips, his own hips pistoning again and again, slamming Harry against the edge of the dresser, and then Draco's biting Harry's shoulder, his prick pulsing deep inside of Harry, and Harry's never felt anything so goddamn bloody wonderful as Draco Malfoy losing himself like this, in a litany of gasps and groans and _fuck_ s that make Harry want to spread his legs wider and take Draco in as much as he can, glorying in the way Draco's clinging to him, holding on to Harry as if nothing else matters. They lean against the dresser for a moment, both of them breathless, and Harry can feel Draco's body shaking against his. "Merlin," Draco says, and his voice is unsteady, rough. "Harry."

"Not bad?" Harry asks, but his own throat's raw, aching. He feels oddly vulnerable and exposed like this, and when he looks up at Draco's reflection, Draco doesn't meet his gaze. Instead he pulls out, his spunk sliding down the inside of Harry's thigh with the movement. 

"A bit of all right," Draco says, quietly. He turns Harry around and then he's kissing him, his lips soft, his tongue possessing Harry's mouth. "Fuck, you're amazing."

Harry wraps himself around Draco, lets Draco pull him back to the bed, both of them falling onto it. They lie silently together, and Harry presses his forehead to Draco's shoulder, breathing out slowly, the pounding of his heart starting to settle as Draco's fingers card through his hair. Harry's never felt so safe. So loved. 

"Move in with me," Harry says, without thinking, and it surprises him, it really does. But he knows it's the right thing to ask, even as Draco's hand stills, his fingers twisting in Harry's hair. Harry looks over at him, takes in the blank look on Draco's face. Fuck it, he thinks. Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor. "It's not as if you don't spend almost every night at Grimmauld anyway. I mean, for fuck's sake, the house gave you a dressing room. You've clothes already in it." More than Harry has, even. 

But Draco doesn't say anything, and Harry shifts, rolls onto his side, looking down at his boyfriend. He reaches out, drags a knuckle down the curve of Draco's cheek. Draco takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. 

"Is it that awful of an idea?" Harry asks. His heart aches. He doesn't know what he'll do if Draco says no. But maybe he should, Harry thinks. Maybe Harry's being a damn fool. He starts to sit it, but Draco catches Harry's hand, pulls him back down onto him. He looks up at Harry, studies Harry's face for a long moment. 

"You're serious," Draco says finally, and Harry nods. Draco laughs, almost incredulously. "We've only been sleeping together for three and a half months, Harry. This is…" Draco looks away, chews his lip. He sighs. "You don't know me."

Harry understands what he means, but he doesn't think it's true. "I do," he says, his voice quiet. "I know things about you that I've never known about anyone else. I know the way you look when you're worried, how you twist your hair around your fingertip. I know how you take your tea--extra milk with two sugars, three if you're having a bad day. I know how you move in your sleep when your dream turns into a nightmare. I know that I love you, and that you love me, and this is the right thing to do. And who cares how long we've been shagging? Or how long we've been dating? I want to share Grimmauld with you." He catches Draco's chin with two fingers, turns Draco's face back to his. "Officially. Move in with me. Who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks?"

Draco's silent, watching him, his damp hair spread across the rumpled sheets, and then he exhales, and his face softens. "You're a complete idiot," he says, and he turns his head, kisses Harry's fingertips. "It does matter what people think. You're the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World, remember?" He holds up his arm, twisting it so that his mangled Mark is in front of Harry's face. Harry doesn't flinch away. He knows he can't. Not right now. "I'm a Death Eater--"

"You were," Harry says. "And now you're not, because people change, Draco. You've changed. You're not the boy you were." He runs a fingertip along the scarred ridges of the Mark, over the inky serpent that stains Draco's pale skin. "Fuck what anyone else says. You're mine, and I love you, and I want us to live together for as long as you'll have me."

"Oh, Merlin, you ridiculously sentimental wanker," Draco says, but Harry can see the way Draco's throat trembles as he swallow. He's quiet, looking up at Harry, and then he nods, slowly. "All right," Draco says, and Harry's heart explodes with joy. "It's a horrible mistake, I'm certain of that, but yes." His smile is suddenly bright and blinding. "Let's do it."

And Harry rolls over Draco, pressing him into the mattress with a whoop as he leans in to kiss him. 

"You're mad, Harry Potter," Draco says, laughing between kisses, his arms going around Harry's neck, holding him close.

Really, Harry thinks, he might not be wrong. "But I'm yours," Harry points out, and Draco pulls him into another slow, heated kiss. 

"That you are," Draco whispers against Harry's mouth, his fingers tangling in Harry's hair. "And you'd best not forget it, Potter."

As if Harry ever could.

***

Althea leans against the wrought iron railing of the long balcony that stretches the length of the hotel's second floor, watching dawn break over the dark tops of the trees across the street. She's been up for an hour, perhaps more, and she's still in her shorts and the t-shirt she slept in which is now sticking to her back in the early morning heat. It's going to be one hell of a day she thinks glumly, as she lifts a cigarette to her mouth and takes a slow drag off of it. She doesn't know why she bought the packet of fags yesterday morning at the newsstand outside of their Boston hotel. She'd gone for a run to shake off some of her nerves about this trip, and when she'd made it back--just in time for a shower and to throw her clothes on for the airport--she'd stopped for a water and then impulsively had the man behind the counter throw in a packet of Marlboros.

Her father smokes this brand. Maybe that's part of it, the familiar scent of Mitchell Whitaker that she misses. Althea rolls the fag between her thumb and finger, watching as the ash falls off, drifting down to the street below. Today's the fifteenth of August; tomorrow'll be two weeks since the ninth anniversary of her mother's murder. And this is part of her life now, that slow steady ticking off of days and weeks and months and years. Her life lies in two halves now: before Clio's death and after. Everything changed with one instant, with one spell being cast, and then less than a month later Althea was back at Hogwarts, truly seeing the Thestrals for the first time. 

Death leaves a mark. Always. 

The memory of that moment, of watching the life fade out of her mother, seeing her crumple to the ground and knowing that body wasn't her mother, not any longer, is going to stay with Althea forever. She's accepted that. She knows that there will be nights when she wakes up in a cold sweat, her heart pounding, a cry half-swallowed in her throat, aching and raw. There'll be days when she thinks of her mother and it'll catch her the wrong way, make her heart hurt. She's had more and more of those moments lately, what with this case, with having to face Antonin Dolohov over and over again. She lifts the fag to her lips once more, her hand shaking.

But it's Corban Yaxley she wants to hurt, Corban she wants to curse the life out of. The Ministry says he's dead. Althea's not certain she believes that any longer. Not after what she's seen the past month. 

"Dead men walking," Althea murmurs, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the heavy, humid air. She pushes her hair back off one cheek. It's thick and impossible today, frizzing up around her face and sticking to her damp skin. She rolls her shoulders, presses her bare feet into the dark-stained wood boards of the floor. They creak beneath her. She wants to scratch at her skin, to stop if from feeling so itchy and tight, but Althea knows that's in her mind more than anything. She always feels like this, taut and tense and tired, when she starts dreaming about her mum. The one early this morning had been bad, more so than Althea'd like to admit. She'd almost thought she'd been awake, seeing her mother across the room, her face twisted in a rictus of pain, her mouth moving, over and over again in a silent shout, a green light flowing around her, writhing across her bruised skin, her tangled hair. It'd only been when Althea had jerked up in the bed, her breath coming in gasps, her heart pounding against her chest, that she'd realised her mother was screaming at her to go, to run, to get away.

Althea presses a knuckle to her forehead, trying to will away the headache that's been forming since she crawled out of bed in the shadows of the room, Pansy still snoring softly in the bed across from her. It was just a bad dream, she tells herself. Nothing more than that. It doesn't matter that this one felt different than the others. She shakes her head, takes another drag from her cigarette. The nicotine helps to steady her nerves. Maybe she'd known she'd need it. Maybe somehow her past self had sensed that fact. Althea's mouth twists into a wry smile. Not bloody likely, is it? Divination had never been her best class, after all. No deep Seers in her family tree; her mum had always mocked those particular Arts. 

Merlin, how Althea misses her. It's never the same again, not once a parent's gone, and it's not fair, Althea thinks, that her mother was taken from her before either of them had a chance to grow older. Maybe it'd have been different if Althea'd been in her forties or fifties or sixties before her mother died. But her mother hadn't been all that much older than Althea is now when she'd been struck by the Killing Curse. Eleven years or so, really. Althea wonders what it would be like to die at thirty-five. She can't comprehend it; her mother had been too damned young. 

She shakes her head, trying to clear it. Althea knows she can't get caught up in this. She has a job to do, and she's been through this all before. Over and over and over again, and it never changes. She can't bring her mother back from the dead, no matter how much she might want to. 

A door opens down the balcony, and a man steps out, tall and broad-shouldered in a black suit and a white shirt, open at the throat. His skin's pale, but weathered, deep wrinkles sketched into the corners of his bright blue eyes. He looks at her, and he smiles, slow and easy, in a way that makes Althea's skin prickle with unease. 

"Lovely morning," the man says. His accent's not American, but Althea isn't certain she can place it. European, maybe, and for a moment she thinks she hears a hint of Wales in the vowels, or maybe a touch of Provence, but it fades quickly. "Wouldn't you say?"

Althea taps a bit of ash from her cigarette. "A bit too warm for my tastes." Something about the way the man's looking at her makes her want to turn around and walk back into her room. She won't give him the satisfaction. 

"It's a welcome change in my book." The man leans against the balcony, looking out over the empty street below. His thick hair is silvery grey; it shines in the early morning sun. "I'm afraid I'm used to a far more chilly climate." The smile he gives her is cool, his glance appraising. "You're British."

"You're observant." Althea's shoulders hunch; she grinds her cigarette out against the railing, flicks it down onto the pavement beneath them. 

The man just laughs softly, his smile widening. "I won't ask why you're in Thibodaux." He studies her face. "It's not a common tourist destination."

"Maybe I like out of the way places." Althea crosses her arms across her chest, and she knows it's ridiculous, knows it's nothing but posturing, but it makes her feel safer, as if she's defending herself in some way. She wishes she hadn't left her wand in the room, but she hadn't thought she'd need it. Not here. 

"A woman after my own heart." The man holds Althea's gaze, looking at her almost as if he can see into the very depths of her soul. His face softens. "You don't know what you want though, do you?" 

"I've no idea what you're on about." Althea stiffens, her whole body on high alert, but the man just leans against the railing, turning away to look down the street. 

"No," he says after a moment, "perhaps you don't. For now at least." He tugs at the cuffs of his jacket, straightening them. "But you will soon, Althea Whitaker."

Althea stills, her heart thudding against her chest. "How did you--"

But she's cut off by the door to her room opening, and Pansy stepping out, her hair rumpled and tangled, her face sleepy and soft. "Althea?" she asks, and when Althea looks back towards the man, he's gone. 

As if he'd never been there in the first place. 

"Who're you talking to?" Pansy asks, rubbing the back of her neck. Her breasts shift beneath her tank top, her nipples hard under the cotton, and Althea closes her eyes, tries not to panic. Maybe, she thinks, she was hallucinating. Maybe her mind's playing tricks on her. 

But she can still hear that deep, lilting voice, still feel the sharpness of that blue gaze prickling against her skin. 

"Althea?" Pansy asks, and when Althea looks over at her, she's leaning against the door, her pyjama bottoms hanging low on her hips, a worried frown on her face. "Are you all right?"

_No,_ Althea wants to say. Instead she shrugs, stoops to pick up the packet of fags she'd dropped on the floor when she first came outside. The cellophane crinkles beneath her fingers. "I'm fine." She's not, and she knows she should say something, should tell Pansy about the man, but she can't bear for Pansy to look at her as if she's mental. 

And to be honest, she's not certain she isn't. Her head throbs; she looks back to the door she'd seen the man come out of. Without thinking, she walks over, peers through the lace curtains hanging at the window. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Pansy asks, sounding scandalised. "You can't--"

"It's empty," Althea says. She shifts, trying to see more clearly. The beds are made, the coverlets smooth and pristine as if no one's touched them since housekeeping straightened them the day before. There's no luggage in the room, no signs that anyone's stayed there overnight. She rubs a hand over her face, suddenly so bloody tired. 

"Althea," Pansy says, a bit carefully, her voice soft, and Althea looks over at her. Pansy's watching her, a faint furrow between her brows. She looks bloody beautiful, Althea thinks, even without the polish of her usual makeup, her dark hair mussed, her brows unkempt, her mouth a pale pink, so very different from the scarlet lipstick she favours. Pansy's fingers brush against her loose hair, tucking it behind one ear, her expression uncertain. "Did something happen?" Pansy bites her lip, then lets it slide out from between her white teeth. "You seem…" She hesitates, then says, "Upset."

Really, Althea can't argue with that. She feels half-mad, and her eyes are gritty and tired from lack of sleep. She looks back at where the man had stood, leaning against the railing. Maybe she hallucinated the whole thing. 

But Althea knows she didn't. She knows what she saw, what she heard, what she said. She just doesn't know what any of it means, what any of it was about. She's starting to hate Louisiana and its heat and the way its magic curls around hers, throbbing deep inside until she feels as if she's losing herself in the way it rushes and ebbs beneath her feet, crashing against her body, threatening to pull her beneath its undertow--

Hands grip her arms, shaking her lightly, and Althea draws in a ragged breath, her lungs expanding, and she coughs, falling against a warm body. 

Pansy's. 

"What the bloody fuck?" Pansy's pushing Althea's hair back from her face, one arm wrapped around Althea's waist. "You're not well, Althea." 

Althea breathes in the faint floral scent of Pansy's skin. It grounds her, steadies her. The rush of magic fades, and it's only then that she realises she's shaking, her fingers twisted in the seam of Pansy's tank top. "Just a bad night," she manages to say, and Pansy frowns at her, as she helps Althea back into the room and to the edge of her bed. Althea sits before her legs give out. She tries to exhale; it comes out in a ragged rasp. 

Pansy walks back, closes the door to the balcony. The room's cool and dark, and Althea finds that comforting. Her skin's flushed; she feels overheated and overwhelmed. 

"Stay there," Pansy says, and she disappears into the bath. Althea hears the rush of water in the sink for just a moment, and then Pansy's back, a wet flannel in her hand. She leans over Althea, pressing it against Althea's cheeks, then her forehead. There's something oddly comforting about it, and Althea feels her body settle at Pansy's touch. "You're a mess." Pansy refolds the flannel, lifts the hair at the nape of Althea's neck, and brushes the flannel across her skin. "And red as a sodding Blast-End Skrewt to boot. Is the heat getting to you?"

"Maybe," Althea lies, and then she wonders if she might actually be telling the truth. She's not used to heat like this, and she ought to have had a cooling charm on, even this early in the day. 

Pansy frowns at her, then sits beside her on the bed, the flannel crumpled in one hand. "So do you want to talk about your bad night or is this the sort of thing we'll pretend neither of us remember after a good breakfast?"

And Althea laughs at that, quiet and a bit raw. "No," she says. "It's not like that." She rubs her palms against her bare thighs. Her skin's still warm and blotchy there. She looks over at Pansy. "I just dreamed about my mum. That's all."

"Oh." Pansy's face softens. "I'm sorry." 

"It's fine." A rush of heat floods Althea's face as she realises what a tit she must seem. "It just…" She doesn't know how to explain it, how to tell Pansy how terrified she'd been when she woke up, so she fiddles with the hem of her shorts, pleating the thin cotton between her fingers. "It's been nine years," Althea says after a moment. "You'd think I'd get used to dreaming about her." 

Pansy's quiet, then she sighs. "Brains don't always work that way." She looks over at Althea, gives her a wry smile. "Look at me, trying to be a Mind Healer."

Althea shrugs. "You're probably better at it than the one Dad made me go to after everything." She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. "She was nice enough, I suppose, but it didn't help. Every night for three years I dreamed about the curse hitting Mum. Every night I tried to stop it." Her throat tightens, thinking back to those awful dreams, the ones in which she couldn't do anything, where she was paralysed, unable to move, to scream, to throw herself in front of her mother. Althea swallows, turns her head away. "Never could."

She breathes out, closes her eyes, waits for Pansy to tell her what they all did. That she shouldn't blame herself. That it wasn't her fault her mother died. That she couldn't have done anything anyway, so why was she tormenting herself like this?

Instead, warm fingers curl around hers, a soft hand settles on the small of her back. "That must be horrible," Pansy says, her voice quiet, and something deep inside of Althea shatters, falling into a million glittering fragments, and Althea can't hold herself back any longer. 

She cries silently, the tears sliding down her cheeks, falling onto her hand clasped tightly with Pansy's. 

And Pansy holds Althea, pulls her shaking body close, presses her face into Althea's hair, letting the swell of emotions roll over them both until Althea's still and tired, the last shuddering breath of grief exhaled out in a rush of angry humiliation. 

"I'm sorry," Althea says against Pansy's shoulder. She feels a complete prat, having a breakdown like this. Althea doesn't let herself get to this point, if she can help it, not when she's alone, and definitely not when someone can see her. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Pansy's thumb strokes small spirals across the back of Althea's hand. "Don't be a twit. You're tired from travelling, and you had a bad dream. That's all." Pansy's voice is light but firm, and Althea can't help her half-laugh. 

"You sound like my nan." Althea knows she should sit up, should push Pansy away. But Pansy's warm and soft, and Althea doesn't want to move, doesn't want to leave the safety of Pansy's touch. Circe, she thinks. She's a bloody idiot, falling for a straight girl who's in love with Tony Goldstein. And Althea can't even hate him for it because she's seen the way Goldstein looks at Pansy. She knows he loves Pansy as well, and Althea's not going to step in the way of whatever it is between the two of them. She wouldn't hurt Pansy that way. The feelings will fade. They'll go away, like they have before. Althea doesn't believe in epic romances, in soulmates. Whatever her father might say. The very idea of it terrifies her. She hates the idea of someone loving her that fiercely, of them being as caught up in her as her father was in her mother. The way he still is, even all these years later. Althea doesn't want that sort of power over another person, doesn't want someone to have that sort of power over her. 

Not even when Pansy laughs softly herself, and the sound of it makes Althea's toes curl against the rug. "We're bred to be bubbes in my family," she says, nudging Althea with her shoulder. "Even my mother, though she'll never admit it. Next thing you know, I'll be trying to feed you, although I do make a decent chicken soup. Even Draco can't complain about it." Her fingers squeeze Althea's lightly. "Feel better?"

"A bit," Althea admits, and she wipes the back of her hand against her still damp cheeks. "Horrified too."

"You'll get over it." Pansy's thigh presses against Althea's, and Althea feels her twat ache at the touch. She wants Pansy. She thinks about what it would be like to push Pansy back against the mattress, to straddle her hips, to catch those soft lips with her own, to cup her hand beneath one of those glorious breasts and feel the nipple harden beneath her thumb, and it's so tempting to do it, to reach for Pansy, to touch her the way Althea dreams of touching her.

And then Althea's on her feet, her face hot, moving away from the bed, away from those thoughts that are far too damned dangerous for her to have. "Breakfast," she says, and she knows she sounds a complete raving idiot. "We should…" She waves her hand in some gesture that even she doesn't understand, but she can't look at Pansy, can't trust herself not to do the things she wants to do. "I call first shower." She doesn't wait for Pansy to answer; she just grabs her satchel and heads for the bath, leaving Pansy looking after her, a frown creasing her gorgeous face. 

It's only when the door's closed between them that Althea breathes out, her whole body shaking as she looks into the mirror, taking in the sight of her puffy face, her flushed cheeks. As if she had any bloody chance with someone like Pansy Parkinson, she thinks. _Althea, you fucking fool._

She turns on the shower and shucks her clothes off, stepping into the bath to stand beneath the hot spray. 

And then it hits her again. All of it. Her mother, the man who didn't exist, her feelings for Pansy, her worries about her father. It's too much, and she doesn't know how to handle it all. 

So Althea covers her face with her hands, sinks to the floor of the bath, the water swirling around her, spiraling down the drain, and she lets herself cry again, the soft gasps of her sobs covered by the sound of the shower spray. 

It's all she can think to do.

***

Jake rolls off of Blaise, gasping for breath, his body still shaking from the force of his orgasm, his arse aching and empty, a slickness slipping from his hole down onto his shuddering thighs. He falls onto his back, staring up at the Acadia's ceiling. There's a water stain in the corner that Jake's fairly certain is from a burst pipe and not the hurricane; the brown edges are bleeding through the fresh paint.

"God _damn_ ," he says, and Blaise laughs, low and throaty. Jake's toes curl into the mattress, and he closes his eyes, wondering if he has it in him to go another round before they have to go downstairs for breakfast. They'd fucked last night, fast and furious before falling asleep, and Jake's not certain his fingernails didn't leave a mark in the headboard with how wildly Blaise had ridden his cock. He'd looked glorious above Jake, his legs spread wide, his thick prick bouncing against his flat belly, the muscles in his shoulders cording from the intensity of holding himself up as he slammed that gorgeous arse of his down on Jake's dick. It'd been just what Jake had needed, and they'd curled around each other afterwards, sated and tired, breathing in the scent of one another until they'd fallen asleep. 

And then Blaise had woken Jake up this morning, playing with his balls, stroking his fingertip along Jake's taint until Jake'd been so goddamn hard he'd thought he might come just from that. When Blaise had slid another finger, oiled this time, around the rim of Jake's asshole and told Jake it was his turn to go for a ride, well. Jake hadn't been born a fool, that's for damn certain. He'd been more than willing to do his share of straddling Blaise's hips, his knees as wide as he can get them while Blaise pounded him until he popped. Fuck, no one's ever made Jake want to spread his cheeks like Blaise does. Jake doesn't know if it's the Veela in Blaise or the way the man knows how to use that brilliant prick of his, but he also doesn't give a damn. Not as long as he can come as hard as he just did, his spunk smeared across Blaise's belly, his own arse still quivering and clenching. 

"All right there?" Blaise asks, and Jake can only nod. He opens his eyes, looks over at Blaise. 

"You don't have to be so damn smug." Jake stretches, enjoying the sting of his arse, the ache in his thighs. His prick is spent and limp, lying sticky against his skin. He needs a good cleansing charm, but he also likes feeling debauched like this. Especially here in the middle of goddamn Thibodaux. It's like a brilliant fuck you to his grandfather, he thinks. This was one thing the old man couldn't beat out of him, however much he tried. 

Blaise's fingers brush against Jake's chest, long and brown and manicured. They'd been wrapped around Jake's cock a few moments ago, pulling hard and fast, making Jake writhe and shout with each quick twist. "I think it says something that I can make you squeal the way you just did," Blaise says, and Jake catches his hand, lifting it to his mouth to kiss. 

"You're brilliant, darlin'," Jake says, "but I sure as hell didn't squeal."

"Certain of that?" Blaise shifts, raises up on one elbow, his leg going over Jake's thigh. "Because I think you did."

And Jake can't let that stand, not that sort of threat to his honour, so he flips Blaise onto his back, his body covering Blaise's lanky length. "Want to say that again?" Jake asks with a laugh, pulling Blaise's hands up over his head. "Because I damn well know I can make you squeal." He bites along Blaise's throat, drags his mouth over Blaise's jaw. "And shake, for that matter," he whispers across Blaise's mouth, and Blaise breathes in sharply, his body twisting beneath Jake's. 

_Mine,_ he hears in his head, a soft, almost imperceptible whisper. 

"God, yeah," Jake says, his eyes half-closed, and he's kissing Blaise, biting his lip, flicking his tongue against the slick edges of Blaise's teeth. "So goddamn yours." It's a breath really, a murmured incantation against the softness of Blaise's lips, but the burst of joy he feels from Blaise as Blaise's arms slide around Jake's neck, holding him closer, is almost overwhelming in its fierceness. 

They lie tangled together across the bed, sticky and warm, their bodies moving against each other, with each other, and Jake knows he can't go again, but fuck, he wants to. He wants to stay in this bed, wrapped around Blaise, and the whole goddamn world can go to hell for all he cares. He wants it to be them, just them. No worries about Yaxley or MACUSA or the goddamn British ministry. No Dolohov, no Lestrange, no fretting about whatever the fuck it is Eddie's doing. Jake wants to lose himself in Blaise in a way he's never wanted with anyone else he's ever taken to his bed, and he's getting dangerously close to telling Blaise that.

So he pulls away instead, looking down at Blaise's swollen, wet mouth. "We're going to have to go downstairs," he says. "And I might need a shower before we do." He sniffs his armpit, then wrinkles his nose. "Forget the might. I definitely do."

"Or you could just use a good cleaning charm," Blaise says, rolling his hips up and biting his lower lip in a way that makes Jake want to lean in and kiss him.

Instead Jake smacks Blaise's hip lightly. "None of those Veela wiles," he says, and he knows he's right when Blaise scowls at him. Jake sits up; the bed's a damn disaster around them, the blankets shoved to the foot of the bed, the fitted sheet pulled up at one corner, and the pillows scattered across the narrow mattress, not to mention the floor. 

It'd been a hell of a good way to wake up, Jake thinks. He stands up. "Want to join me in the shower?" He grins over at Blaise. "Water conservation and all that?"

"That's not going to be as efficient as you'd think." Blaise stretches out across the bed. His fingers drift down to stroke across his half-swollen prick, and Jake rethinks his plans for a shower. "My cleaning charms are brilliant though."

For a moment, Jake's tempted, but he knows if he crawls back into bed with Blaise he's not going to want to roll out of it again. And they've work to do. Still, he lets his hand smooth over Blaise's calf, watching as Blaise's lips part at the featherlight touch. "I'll try the shower," Jake says, and Blaise flicks two fingers at him as he walks away. 

Jake just laughs. 

It's only when he's standing beneath the spray, his face lifted into the pounding water, that Jake realises he's happy. In goddamn Thibodaux, of all places. But he is, because Blaise Zabini makes him happy, and Jake's almost forgotten what it's like to feel that way, to have a heart that's light, that isn't worried, to not be looking for what--or who--is coming next. He's happy with Blaise, even with all the tensions of work and family swirling around them both. 

Jake doesn't know what do with happy. 

He turns off the water, lets himself drip dry for a moment before he wraps himself in a scratchy towel and walks back out into the room. Blaise is up now, in a pair of tight red briefs that show off his ass to perfection. He's next to the other bed, messing the sheets and punching the pillows; he looks up when he sees Jake. 

"Thought you might want it to look like we used both beds for housekeeping," Blaise says, and Jake can only just look at him, oddly overcome by something so small and insignificant. But still, it means Blaise knows, that he's seen the way things can be around here, that he understands the line Jake has to walk. 

Jake reaches out a hand, and Blaise takes it, letting Jake pull him close. "Are you going to be odd about this?" Blaise asks, and Jake just nods, leaning in to kiss him. Blaise's lips are soft and warm; he smells delicious, the lemony scent of his cleaning charms still lingering across his skin, and the quiet huff of his breath against Jake's mouth sends a shiver of want through Jake's body. 

"Maybe I should have stayed in bed with you," Jake says, pulling back just enough to look at Blaise, who just smiles, his hands settling on Jake's hips. Jake runs his fingers up over Blaise's biceps, enjoying the firm feel of them beneath his palms. "Think of all the things we could have done…"

"Until the guv sent Draco up to pound on the door," Blaise says with a laugh. "Or worse--Pansy." His nostrils flare. "She always did enjoy a bit of cockblocking when we were in school."

And there's a story behind that, Jake thinks, although he's not certain he wants to know. He doesn't like the idea of Blaise with anyone else. Not even in his youth, and Jake knows that's fucking ridiculous. He's never cared about that sort of thing before with anyone he's fucked. And it's not as if Jake's ever been into the virginal type. He prefers the more experienced guy, if he's honest. One who knows what the fuck he's doing with his dick and doesn't mind spreading his ass wide. 

Blaise is looking at him, a curious expression on his face. 

"What?" Jake knows he sounds a bit sharp, but he can't help himself.

"You're jealous." Blaise laughs. "Merlin's saggy tits. Really? About some hypothetical hookup at Hogwarts?"

Jake frowns. "I'm not." But he is, and judging from the way Blaise's eyebrow quirks up, Blaise doesn't believe his protest either. "Put some goddamn clothes on," Jake says, annoyed, and Blaise laughs in his face. 

"Right." Blaise tugs on the towel wrapped around Jake's hips, pulling it free. He tosses it aside. "You're one to talk." The way his gaze drags down Jake's body is smug and more than a little pointed when Jake's cock starts to fatten between them.

And Jake thinks about lifting Blaise up, about tossing him on the bed and fucking him senseless again, about kissing up the side of Blaise's long, brown throat, then whispering in Blaises's ear how he feels, what he wants from all of this. That thought makes Jake look away, makes his face heat. Those are secrets best left unsaid right now. Maybe forever even. So he steps away, walks over to his bag on the dresser, willing his dick to soften as he does, although it seems to have a goddamn mind of its own now. He can feel Blaise's gaze on his back, and he blocks his mind, pushing those Occlumency walls up to make certain Blaise stays out. Jake doesn't always like the way their minds slide together, the way he can feel Blaise's thoughts, sense his emotions. Right now Jake needs to keep that at bay, to feel as if he has a modicum of control in whatever this is that's pulling them together, even when he damn well knows he doesn't, that he's falling for a man who's going to break his heart in the end. 

Again.

He curses himself for a fool as he pulls clothes from his bag. And then he hears Blaise sigh and shift behind him, and he feels more of an asshole. Especially when Blaise says, his voice soft, "Maybe I will take that shower after all." 

The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, a quiet thunk of wood against wood. Jake leans against the dresser, his palms on either side of his bag, and he breathes out. It's all so goddamn complicated, and he doesn't know what to do. What to say. 

"You fucking bastard," Jake murmurs to himself. He knows he's fucking everything up when he pushes Blaise away. He wants to stop, but goddamn Thibodaux's getting into his head again. Making him feel unhappy about himself, uncertain. He'd run the hell away from Louisiana as soon as he could; even Atlanta had been easier, less constricting. He'd found other gay men there, ones who were out and proud and didn't give a fuck who knew. They'd been so different from the straight boys here and in Shreveport that might let him jerk them off, hidden away in the cab of his daddy's old truck, parked off the road, down by the banks of a bayou. If he was lucky, they'd fumble around with his dick afterwards, but half the time they'd just buckled their flies back up, told him thanks and that he'd better not open his goddamn mouth and tell anyone or they'd punch his pretty face in. Those were the decent ones. There'd been one guy in Shreveport who'd gotten off with him, parked back behind a Save-a-Lot, then slammed Jake's face against the steering wheel of the truck, nearly breaking his nose in the process, then hissed in his ear that Jake had better not have given him AIDS. 

From a goddamn hand job. 

Jake shakes his head, the weight of those memories pressing into him, bowing his shoulders. It hadn't been easy to grow up gay in rural Louisiana in the late Eighties, early Nineties. New Orleans had been a little easier, a place he could run to and breathe when he felt claustrophobic, when he was certain he might end up floating in a goddamn bayou because there was nothing left for him after his mama went. Aunt Eula tried her best to help him, to understand who Jake was, and she'd protected him when she had to from his papère's temper. She'd run to Shreveport for her own reasons, so she knew what it was like to want to escape Thibodaux, and she'd stood by him, even when she had to go to Baton Rouge to pay his bail at the Auror station for some fuck-up he'd gotten himself involved in. Jake thinks he should go see her again. It's been too long since his last visit. Maybe he might even drop by L'École Josephine de Beauharnais. Say hello to his old teachers, let them see that he grew up respectable at last. God knows Dr Laurent would be shocked by that. The headmistress had been certain Jake would end up in Oudepoort with his daddy at some point. 

Then again, after all this, she might just be right. 

He exhales, tries to shake off the grimness that's settled over him. He needs to get out of this damn town again. It's stifling him, bringing up things he'd rather not think about. Memories he'd thought he'd left buried along with his mama. 

And Jake's terrified about what he might find out if he's turning up those old secrets, the ones his family have tried to hide. He's spent his whole life thinking his mama was perfect, that she'd been the good parent, that she'd protected him against his daddy. When she died, he'd put her up on a pedestal and kept her there for the next twenty years. She could do no wrong; she'd been perfect because Jake had needed to believe that she was. And now he's not so certain. There's something that's been kept from him, some truth that Jake doesn't know that he wants to uncover. And he's not so certain he knows who Élodie Fontenot Durant is any longer. Maybe he never did. 

And if he doesn't know his mama, Jake's not so certain he knows himself. That's crazy. He gets that. But he's starting to feel as if everything he once thought he understood about the boy he was, about what formed him into the man he is now, well, maybe that's all shit. Maybe it's all things he wanted to believe. 

Maybe Eddie's been right all these years. Maybe Jake doesn't know what it was like for his family. Maybe he's been wrong about everything. 

Jake draws in a deep breath, lets it out. He can hear Blaise in the shower. Part of him wants to go in there, to step beneath the water, to let it wash his worries away as he kisses the man he loves.

And his heart stutters at that admission. Jake loves Blaise. He's known it since he left last week, if he's honest. Jake doesn't want to face it, but he can't shy away from the truth. Not now. His palms press against the edge of the dresser top; the wood bites into his skin, but Jake barely notices. He's fallen in love with Blaise Zabini, like a goddamn fool, and Jake has no fucking clue what he's going to do about that. It's hopeless, he thinks. A man like Blaise with someone like him? He laughs, and it's ugly, bitter. Not even Harry Potter wanted Jake. Why the hell would Blaise? Sure Jake's a good fuck, but that's all this is, all it ever can be. Blaise'll go back to London, and Jake'll--well. To be honest, Jake has no goddamn idea what'll happen to him after all of this. Probably Oudepoort, unless he can get across the border. He could hide out in Quebec for a bit. Martine could probably find some place for him to stay, but Jake's loathe to involve her in any of this. He's already self-destructed his own MACUSA career. He'll be damned if he's going to take anyone else down with him. 

Jake straightens up, reaches for his clothes. He steps into a pair of briefs and pulls them up over his hips, tucking his dick in carefully. Whatever the hell's going to happen, he'll face it down when it does. But right now he needs to pull himself together and focus on the work he has to do. They won't have long; he's known that since he arrived. And whatever goddamn secrets he has to unearth, Jake'll grab a fucking shovel and dig them up. Because Aldric Yaxley scares the shit out of Jake, if he's honest, and there's no way in everloving hell Jake's going to let that Limey bastard bring his country down. 

Or Blaise's for that matter. 

Jake pulls a t-shirt over his head. He's got a goddamn Robichau levee down near Lake Boeuf to help restore today, and a great-uncle to grill in the process. One way or another Jake's going to figure out what the MACUSA president wants from his family, and exactly what the hell it is that they've been hiding. 

After all, Jake thinks, picking up a pair of jeans, he hasn't got another goddamn choice in any of this, has he? 

He draws in a ragged breath again, then sighs. Hallucination or not, maybe he should have listened to his mamère yesterday. 

Maybe they all should have goddamn run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The next installment should be out on March 5. I have another hp-kinkfest fic to post on February 25 if you want to find me on Tumblr or LJ in the meantime.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blaise is hacked off, Georgie makes a surprise appearance, and the pace of investigation accelerates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Thank you all for waiting so patiently--the Noe/Femme household has been racked with change recently (not to mention snowstorm after snowstorm), and RL has been quite challenging in the past weeks. We're so thankful to sassy_cissa, not only for her sterling beta work but also for scraping both of us off the floor and giving us a kick in the pants when we needed it. Much love goes out to her and to all readers!

Harry glances around the Acadian's dining room. It's early still, and Zabini's not down yet, nor are Whitaker or Parkinson. Jake's just walked in, though, and from the scowl on his face, Harry wonders if his night went terribly wrong. The last thing Harry wants to deal with is a row between Jake and Zabini, and, really, he knows better than to express his concern aloud, particularly with Draco sat beside him here at the largest of the round tables scattered across the mostly empty dining room, pots of coffee and pitchers of water set in the middle of each one, along with a small white vase filled with purple and pink wildflowers. 

With a wave of his hand, Jake heads for the buffet along the side of the room and its row of shining silver servers. A waiter leans against the wall, tea towel in hand, looking bored, although his gaze flicks over towards Jake as he passes. Harry can't really blame him. In his jeans and his tight t-shirt that shows off his muscular arms, not to mention his hair rumpled and his thick brows drawn together, Jake looks the perfect masculine man. The kind you want to be, and maybe even fuck, Harry thinks, and really, hadn't that been most of his reason for going out with Jake in the first place? Jake'd been a bit of a fantasy for Harry, someone he could pretend to be mad about when really, Harry thinks maybe he'd just wanted to be like Jake. Calm, mostly even-tempered, not someone who sets the nearest flammable thing on fire whenever he's a bit riled up. 

Grown up, with a proper life. 

Not that Jake actually is, really. And maybe that'd been part of it falling apart. That fantasy of Harry's couldn't hold up, not when they'd started living together in New York. Jake has a temper, and whilst he's better at keeping under control than Harry is, it'd still flared. And all the things Jake had wanted them to be together--stable, communicative, honest with each other--Harry hadn't been able to do. 

Or maybe it's that he hadn't been ready to do that yet. And maybe Jake hadn't been either, Harry thinks. Or maybe he'd thought he was when he wasn't. Harry wonders if that's part of it, if they'd both pretended to be someone they couldn't be for one another because they thought that what the other had expected. Harry watches Jake as he spoons fluffy scrambled eggs onto his plate. There'll always be a bit of something between the two of them. A spark, a frisson that won't quite go away. Harry's starting to understand that, to be all right with it. Jake's part of his past. He can't change that even if he wanted to. Those two years with Jake had shaped Harry, in good ways and bad, he supposes. And without that, Harry doesn't think he'd have ever found himself sat here beside Draco Malfoy of all people. 

Who's currently frowning at Jake in a way that Harry knows doesn't bode well. "He's done something stupid," Draco says, stabbing at a bit of potato with his fork. "It's bloody radiating off him."

"Maybe he didn't sleep well." Harry feels obligated to at least reluctantly defend Jake. He knows all too well what it's like when the Slytherins bond together and turn on whomever's raised their ire. 

Draco snorts. "That's not what I'm picking up." He pops the potato in his mouth and chews, a bit too forcefully for Harry's comfort. "If I have to hex your ex for Blaise's sake, I will." He glances over at Harry ever so quickly, narrowing his eyes before he turns back to his plate. 

"I'm fully aware," Harry says, and he tries not to laugh. He feels warm and cosy beside Draco like this. As if this is the place he always should have been. 

"As long as we're in agreement." The sideways smile Draco gives him is sly, and Harry wonders how much of his current thoughts Draco can read.

"Get out of my mind, Malfoy," Harry says, and by the roll of Draco's eyes, Harry knows he's right. 

_You're terrible,_ he thinks with a shake of his head, but he can't pretend to be angry about it. 

_No._ Draco's thought slithers through Harry's, warm and amused. _You're just a terrible Occlumens._

Harry likes the way Draco can feel his mood, can hear his thoughts sometimes. It feels intimate between them, special. Harry knows Draco lets it happen with other people as well, not just him, but for Harry, it means something. He presses his leg against his boyfriend's, looking over at him with a small smile. To be honest, Harry's still feeling a bit fluttery inside, a bit surprised that Draco'd actually agreed to take their relationship public when they get back. 

They'll do it slowly, they've agreed. Draco doesn't want to make an announcement, at least not yet, and Harry's fine with that. He's always hated the fanfare that comes with him being seen with someone new, the flurry of articles and photographs that set a relationship on edge. He and Jake had been lucky enough that most of their time together had been spent outside of Britain. No one in New York had given a fuck who he was, and Luxembourg had been a diplomatic sanctuary. But Harry and Draco? Merlin's saggy tits, it'll be be a shitstorm, and Harry'd rather put that off as long as possible. For now, he's happy with Draco moving his things into Grimmauld whilst he decides whether or not to sell off his flat or give it to his mum. Frankly, Harry thinks Narcissa would like two bedrooms with a garden in Islington near her sister, but Draco's not certain his mother ought to move out of Andromeda's house just yet. Neither of them have suggested the Manor as an option. Harry knows Draco would rather just close up the Wiltshire house and not deal with it, but he's fairly certain the solicitors won't allow that. After all, the elves have to be thought of. 

And that makes Harry a bit uncomfortable. It's not as if intellectually he doesn't know that Draco comes from a particular lineage, with all the lingering bits and bobs of wealth that come with that family history. But he thinks of Draco as his equal, as someone on his level, with a flat of his own and a job in the Ministry, not some posh bloke swanning around acting as if he owns half of wizarding society. Except that's exactly how Draco'd been when they were kids, hadn't he? 

Harry glances over again at Draco. Draco's hair is twisted up in a loose knot on the top of his head; a tendril's already escaped, sticking to the nape of his neck. He looks good, Harry thinks, in the crisp white shirt and grey twill trousers he's chosen for the heat of the day. Draco's already rolled up his sleeves, pushing them past the scarred twist of the Mark, and Harry marvels at that. Draco never would, not a few months ago. Not a few weeks ago, even, but there's a freedom in being away from Britain that Harry can see in the way Draco carries himself, in the set of Draco's shoulders, in the simple relief of being able to fold up the cuffs of his shirt without fear of being judged by his past mistakes. 

This is the Draco Harry loves, the one he wants to spend his life with--however long Draco will stay. 

"Stop staring at me," Draco says, not looking at Harry as he pushes scrambled eggs across his plate, but there's a faint curve to his mouth that makes Harry want to lean in and kiss him, the older couple across the room be damned. And he definitely must think that a bit too loudly because Draco frowns at him then. 

_Behave, you wretch._ But Draco's mouth twitches just a bit to one side, and Harty's tempted. So very, very tempted. 

Harry lets the mental image of carrying Draco back upstairs drift through his mind. Of doing delicious things to him, of making that pale skin flush beneath his touch, making Draco arch under him, gasping and pleading.

And then something flicks across his mind cold and quick, like the gentle slap of a wet flannel against skin. _Stop that._ Draco's voice sounds both breathless and stern in Harry's head. _You're incorrigible._

"It'd be worth it, you have to admit." Harry takes a bite of toast, hiding his grin as Draco's face grows pinker.

"We're here for work, Inspector Potter," Draco says primly, and he doesn't look at Harry as he reaches for the jar of strawberry preserves. His ears are still red, though, just around the curve, and Harry wants so badly to lean over and kiss that bit of skin right between Draco's earlobe and his hairline. "Stop," Draco hisses, and he glares at Harry, his jam-streaked knife hovering over his toast.

With a sigh, Harry settles back in his chair. "I really ought to have let you shag me again before we came down," he murmurs, and Draco rolls his eyes. 

"It's vulgar to be that insatiable, Potter," Draco says, but his mouth quirks a little at the corner. 

"Never claimed to be posh, did I?" Harry can feel the weight of the Portkey Hermione'd given him in his pocket. He's half-tempted to set it off now, to whisk them both back to London and say to hell with whatever bollocks Yaxley and Lestrange have up their bloody sleeves. 

Draco just gives Harry an even look. 

"Morning." Jake sits down across from Harry, a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, as well as those buttery grits he loves. Harry's never understood the joy Jake takes in them, or the rapt look of bliss that crosses Jake's face when he scoops up a spoonful and pops it in his mouth. Jake closes his eyes. "Jesus, I miss Louisiana food." He picks up a powdery, sugary beignet and takes a bite. 

Draco's watching Jake with a curious look on his face as he tears the beignet apart, eating the fried dough with gusto. "There's a mood change if ever I saw one," Draco says, and he puts his own fork down, rests his elbows on the table. He waits a moment or two, his gaze off of Harry and onto Jake now, and Harry's not certain that's a relief. "So where's Blaise?" Draco keeps his tone light, but Harry can hear the steel beneath it. A part of him feels a bit sorry for Jake--but not much. If Jake was idiot enough to row with Zabini before breakfast, well, Harry thinks, more fool him.

Jake doesn't answer. Instead, he swallows the last of the beignet, licks his fingertips, then says, "Showering," He picks up his spoon, the cutlery loud against the china as he scrapes together more grits.

Harry's not surprised when Draco's eyes narrow. "That's not really an answer, is it?" Draco asks, but Jake's saved from replying by Parkinson striding into the dining room in a sleeveless green shirt that's not tucked into her black, ankle-length trousers, the shirttail fluttering behind her. Her hair's twisted up in curls piled on top of her head, a pair of sunglasses settled in amongst them. 

"Bonjour, darlings," Parkinson says cheerfully, and even the old couple near the window looks up from their food with smiles. Whitaker's trailing behind Parkinson; she looks oddly pale around the edges, her plaid shirt rumpled and the plait wrapped around her head messier than Harry's ever seen it, as if Whitaker'd done it with shaking hands. 

"You're terribly happy this morning," Draco says, leaning back in his chair to let Parkinson kiss his cheek. 

She drops into the seat beside him, then looks up at Whitaker. "Fancy getting me a coffee with cream?" she asks. "Maybe a bit of toast as well?"

For a moment, Harry thinks Whitaker's going to say no, but instead she sighs and shrugs. "You're eating more than toast," Whitaker says, and she sounds tired. 

Parkinson gives her a long, level look. "Bring me what you're going to eat then," she says, and Harry catches the flicker of annoyance that crosses Whitaker's face before she turns on her heel and walks away, her shoulders stiff and set.

"What's with that?" Jake asks, his gaze following Whitaker. He picks up another beignet from the side of his plate and bites into it, getting icing sugar all over his chin. Clumps of it drift down onto his t-shirt. Harry thinks about telling him, but decides not to. 

"She needs to fucking eat," Parkinson says, and she rests her elbows on the table. "If I make her think she has to force me to get food down, then I can flip it on her." She leans forward; her thin shirt gapes a bit around the buttons. "Ravenclaws, my friend. The care and feeding of those bastards can be a tricky business when they're in a mood or on a deadline. I've learnt that much shagging Tony." Parkinson watches Whitaker at the buffet station, balancing two plates as she fills them, then she shakes her head and glances back over at Harry and Draco. "Althea had a bit of a wobbly this morning," she says, her voice quiet. "I think she's better now, but…" She trails off. 

"What'd she wobble about?" Draco asks from behind his hand, a mouthful of eggs muffling his words. He swallows, presses a knuckle to the corner of his lips, wiping a bit of grease away before he clears his throat.

Parkinson absently rubs her thumb over a bug bite on the back of her hand. "Bad dreams. Her mother, that sort of thing. Probably just travelling, you know how it is switching time zones the way we have." Still, she looks worried. "I don't think she slept well."

"She's not the only one," Draco says, and Harry looks over at him in surprise. This isn't something Draco's told him yet; to be honest, Harry'd thought they'd both slept like the bloody dead last night, particularly after Harry'd sucked Draco off until he was shuddering and sweaty. Draco takes another bite of his eggs, then reaches for the mug of tea sat in front of his plate. 

"You didn't mention," Harry says, and he knows he sounds petulant, but he can't help but be a bit hurt that Draco hadn't confided in him, particularly when Jake raises his eyebrows, and leans back in his chair looking amused, the bastard. 

Draco sips his tea before he looks over at Harry, the white mug cupped between his palms. A curl of steam rises up from the milky brown tea, coiling around Draco's cheek before disappearing up towards the wide-bladed fan swirling slowly on the ceiling. "It wasn't anything important." Draco frowns, and his thumb slides up and down the side of the mug, his other fingers tapping lightly at the bottom. "Dreams about my father mostly. Par for the course in recent days, to be honest." He lifts the mug to his mouth again. "Seems like Father didn't want me to stay here. He mostly shouted at me to go home to London, the sodding git." 

But Harry can see the way Draco's hand trembles ever so slightly, and he knows what it means when Draco glances away, his jaw tight. Those dreams about Lucius bother Draco. Harry knows that, and he wishes Draco had told him, had woken him up when it happened. Harry wouldn't have been able to do anything, except maybe hold Draco close until the panic faded away. 

_It wouldn't have helped,_ Draco murmurs deep in Harry's mind. 

Harry just watches Draco, takes in the way his gaze slides away from Harry's, the way his fingers clutch the mug, his knuckles paler than the rest of his skin. He knows Draco's lying, maybe to make Harry feel better, maybe because he honestly thinks there's nothing Harry could have done. Harry sighs. _I could have tried._

_It wasn't anything. I promise._ Draco sets his mug down. A bit of tea splashes out of it, staining the white tablecloth. Harry can feel the uncertainty rolling off Draco until Draco realises that fact and slams his Occlumency back into place. Harry hates the silence of that, the loss of the connection between them. 

And it's Parkinson who gets to settle her hand on Draco's arm, murmuring something soft beneath her breath as she leans close to him. Harry hates not being able to touch Draco right now, but he knows if he did, Draco would flinch away from him, and that would be worse. He looks up; Jake's watching him with a wry smile.

"Welcome to Louisiana," Jake says, his voice quiet, and Harry takes a deep breath, exhales it in a slow huff. He's been in cities for so long now that he's nearly forgotten what it's like to be in a small town. Harry'd like to blame it on America, but he knows it'd be the same if they were sat in a cafe in Little Whinging. He remembers all too well the slurs Dudley and his friends used so casually with one another, as if they meant nothing until they turned on Harry. He remembers the way his cousin had mocked his grief over Cedric's death, asking if Harry was crying over his boyfriend at night, as if doing so made him lesser, made him some twat that they could mock, could push around. 

It's different now with Dudley. They've made their peace; Harry meets his cousin for drinks every now and then, and he really does enjoy those times together, tucked away in a corner table in a pub neither of them really know, surrounded by people who they'll probably never see again. Sometimes Dudley's fiancée Melanie is with them, and those are the best nights. Harry likes Mels; she's good for his cousin, makes him a bit less gawky, a bit less blundering, a bit less like Uncle Vernon. Eventually Harry'll introduce Dudders and Mels to Draco, but Harry knows Dudley will still be a little awkward about it all. Not that he'll say anything. The opposite, in fact. Dudley always tries to make up for the fact that he's uncomfortable knowing Harry's bent by acting as if everything's fine. And maybe that's for the best, but sometimes Harry wants to be a shit about it, wants to point out the small, almost unnoticeable ways Dudley's discomfort shows up. How Dudley looks away, how he shifts in his chair if Harry holds another man's hand in front of him, much less leans a bit too closely, how he'll start talking loudly if seems as if Harry might be affectionate his boyfriend the way Dudley's just been with his fiancée, whether it's a touch, a kiss, a lingering look. It'd happened with Jake once during Sunday roast. And then the subject's changed if Harry mentions anything too intimate about his life with another man, but only after an awkward silence. 

The same had happened with the Weasleys at first, but they'd got used to it soon enough, particularly after Ron had told his brothers to stop being bloody twits, and Ginny'd agreed. Sometimes Harry wonders what would happen if he sent Ron and Gin to face down Dudley, and that thought makes him want to snort. Harry's not certain who'd come out on top there, although he suspects they'd all end up at the pub, bonding over a pint and embarrassing stories about Harry.

Whitaker comes back to the table with two plates filled with eggs and potatoes and toast. She sets one in front of Parkinson, then settles into the chair beside Jake, looking terribly out of sorts. "What's on for today, guv?" she asks, and Harry notices that whilst she picks up a fork and drags it through her eggs, she doesn't actually eat any. Not yet at least. 

Harry eyes his team a bit warily; he feels as if they're all on edge today in a way that makes him worry. "We need to wrap up a few enquiries," he starts to say, but then Zabini's in the doorway, crisp and clean in a deep red polo that's fitted across his broad shoulders and a pair of jeans so tight that Harry swears he must have charmed them on himself. Really, he looks like a walking advert for an upscale Muggle brand, the type one might find in Harvey Nicks or Selfridges. Harry's not all that surprised when Zabini drops into the seat beside Harry, with another two empty seats between himself and Jake. 

"Coffee?" Zabini asks, and Harry pushes over the still-warm pot he'd had the waiter refill a a quarter-hour ago. Zabini pours some into an empty mug and drains it, no milk, no sugar. He grimaces, then sets the mug down with a soft thud against the tablecloth and a quiet sigh. "Sorry. Needed some caffeine."

"No worries," Harry says, eyeing Zabini carefully. Being around Draco has made Harry more cognisant of emotions, in a way he'd never been before Draco started seeping into his mind, and Harry can tell that Zabini's off-kilter this morning. Not wildly, but enough for Harry to sense it, which feels odd. Harry's not certain he likes that, to be honest. Something must have happened between Zabini and Jake, Harry thinks, and he shifts his plans for the day. Every intuition Harry has is warning him it's better to keep those two apart, at least for the morning. He lets his gaze sweep back across the table. To be honest, he's not so certain it wouldn't do all of them good to be shaken up a bit, taken out of their usual configurations they tend to fall into without thought now. Whatever it is--whether it's the shift in time zones, or the strangeness of being in Thibodaux, or, fuck, the way the magic of this place keeps crawling over Harry's skin, making him feel as if he's out of sorts, out of place, out of time, even--the truth is that they're all at sixes and sevens right now, and Harry thinks they need a bloody break. 

"Look." Harry twists a toast crust between his thumb and forefinger, letting the buttery crumbs fall across his plate. "We need to split up, make a plan for talking to people--"

Jake shifts in his seat. "I'm going over to see my Uncle Luc. Maybe he'll be able to help us with the Robichaus and how they fit into whatever the fuck we're looking for." He leans his elbows on the table; there's still a smudge of icing sugar on his chin. "If that's all right with you, Inspector." There's the faintest tinge of mocking in his voice, but judging from the way Jake's gaze slides over to Zabini, Harry doesn't think it's directed at him, not entirely at least. 

"All right." Harry meets Jake's gaze evenly. "But you're not going by yourself." Before Jake can protest, Harry looks across the table. "Whitaker, you go with Jake." He holds his hand up as Whitaker starts to shake her head. "You're strong enough to help with the levee work, and I think you're smart enough to stay out of the way and let Jake take the lead." He glances back at Jake. "Any worries about that?"

"No," Jake says, but Harry knows he's not happy, especially when Jake looks over at Zabini, who's nicked a triangle of toast from the side of Harry's plate. Zabini doesn't seem to notice Jake, which Harry knows is ridiculous. He can feel how tense Zabini is beside him. Jake sighs, then leans back in his chair. He runs his hand through his hair, the blond curls sliding through his fingers. "Althea's fine."

Harry looks over at Draco. "You had someone you wanted to talk to?"

Draco doesn't answer. Instead he frowns down at his plate, his lip caught between his teeth. When Harry nudges Draco's thigh with his knee, Draco looks over at him first before glancing at Jake. "Nathalie Fontenot," Draco says finally, his voice low, and Jake's eyebrows rise. 

"You're talking to Davina's mother." It's a flat statement from Jake, his face neutral as he studies Draco, who flushes and inhales, letting his breath out in a soft, slow huff before nodding and looking over at Harry, then Jake. The rest of the table's silent, though Parkinson leans forward ever so slightly, and Harry knows if Jake loses his temper, Parkinson will match him, shout for shout. 

"Davina suggested it last night," Draco says, and he doesn't look away from Jake's frown. "She thought her mother might be able to shed some light on what your parents might have been hiding."

And Harry thinks that Jake's going to shove his chair back from the table and walk away. Jake's fingers flex against the tabletop, his shoulders hunch up, but Draco just keeps watching him, silent and steady. It's almost as if he's communicating with Jake, telling him something mentally, and Harry hates that. He doesn't like the idea of Draco doing that with anyone but him, doesn't like that fact that Jake and Draco are both Legilimens, that they've a bond between them Harry doesn't want them to share. He knows it's petty of him, not to mention idiotic, but he still can't seem to stop the jealousy that knifes through him, searingly hot. 

Draco's knuckles brush the back of Harry's hand, so quick that Harry barely notices it, save for the prickle of warmth that crosses his skin. It's the briefest of touches, but there's something about it that makes Harry relax, makes that bitterness in him settle. He can feel the soft graze of Draco's mind against his, the faint whisper of love that Harry doesn't have to hear to know is there between them. 

Harry can tell the moment Jake gives in by the way he slouches back in his seat. He's known Jake long enough to recognise his tells. Jake's not happy about it, but he's not going to protest. "Nathalie probably could," Jake says after a moment. "She and my mother were close. If Mama was hiding anything, Nathalie'd know better than anyone else around here." He hesitates, looking at Draco. "Whatever she says, I want to know."

"I promise you will," Draco says, and Jake breathes out a soft, huffing laugh before he picks up a triangle of unbuttered toast, folds it in half, and takes a bite. Harry knows Jake's uncertain about all of this, but fuck that. If he'd wanted to keep them all out of his personal life, he shouldn't have asked for their help.

Then again, Harry thinks, that request had been more influenced by Tom Graves than anyone else. And that makes him worry. When all of this started up back in May, Harry'd no idea they'd end up here, caught between two governments in turmoil. It'd just been a fucking murder case back then. Not some international conspiracy that Harry's not certain he's capable of unravelling. Not at twenty-six, Inspector or not. They're all too bloody young for this. Too green. Even Jake, if Harry's honest. 

Draco's quiet, then he looks back over at Harry. "I'd like to take Pans with me," he says. "If that's all right. I have a feeling it might be good to have a woman there with me."

Harry's hesitant. He'd rather be by Draco's side, but he knows Draco has a good eye for these sorts of things, and he does truly think they need to shake up their routine, so he nods. "Parkinson, any objection to that?"

It's as if a wave of relief rolls across the table from Draco, and Harry knows he's made the right choice. 

"I don't mind a bit." Parkinson curls her fingers around Draco's, squeezing them before pulling her hand back. 

"Right then." Harry turns to Zabini. "That leaves you and me. There's a historical society not far from here. I'd like to go by, see if there's anything we can dredge up about the magical families around here." He glances over at Jake. "Will there be?"

Jake shrugs. "Wouldn't surprise me if there is. Our families have been here for generations. It's a place to start, at least."

Harry agrees. Besides, proper policing requires them to reach out to authoritative sources to determine if the town itself knows anything about artefacts being hidden. "If nothing else," Harry says, "there might be rumours amongst the Muggles that have some basis in magical fact." 

And honestly, it wouldn't be the first time Harry's solved a case based on information from Muggles rather than the magical community. Back in his early days as a constable, before Ron had drummed himself out of the Aurors, they'd gone after a potioneer in Cornwall who'd been selling shit tinctures to the local children. None of the wizards in the villages they'd gone to had known anything, but there'd been enough gossip about a mental bloke who lived down the cliff to point them in the right direction. They'd caught him because of Muggles, ironically enough, and it'd been Ron's idea to start up a conversation down the local pub.

Merlin, but sometimes Harry wishes Ron had never left the force. He'd have made a brilliant copper.

There's a flash of bright pink in the doorway, and Georgie Durant's hurrying across the dining room, her sandals flapping against her bare heels. Her blonde hair's pulled up in a ponytail; her pink t-shirt proclaims _f*ck your misogynist bullshit_ in white script. 

"Oh, thank Saint Valérie, you're still here," Georgie says, and she stops beside the table, hand against her chest as she tries to catch her breath. She has a crumpled paper in one fist, and she waves it towards Jake. "Crow post came in half an hour ago. Mama handed it to me just as Lottie and I were headed out the door to drop her off at Marie-Thérèse's house for the day." She grimaces. "Weird little girl, but Lottie likes her so…" 

Jake frowns as he takes the paper from her. "No one uses crow post any more."

Georgie takes the glass of orange juice Whitaker hands up to her. "Well, I guess your Martine does still, New York be damned, and Mama and I are country enough to recognise it when it comes flying up to the kitchen window, cawing to beat the goddamn band." She rubs her palm across her sweaty brow, then takes a sip of the orange juice. "You better read it; Martine put an urgent charm on it."

But Jake's already unfolded it, and his face sobers as his gaze slides down the page. "Fuck," he says, his voice grim, and he hands the paper across the table to Harry. "You need to see this."

Harry can feel Draco leaning over his shoulder as he smoothes the folds of the paper out. Martine had been in a hurry, Harry thinks. The paper's been ripped from a spiral notebook--the kind they sell in every street corner Duane Reed in New York--and the ink's smudged. 

"That's all in French," Draco says, his breath warm against Harry's cheek. 

"So?" Harry looks up at Draco, and he tries not to smile at the surprise written across Draco's face. Sometimes he forgets that it's only been three months that they've been together. They barely know each other; they've still so many things to discover. "I practically lived in Luxembourg for two years. I might not be fluent in French, but I can get by." 

"His accent is fucking horrible though," Jake says from across the table, but Draco doesn't seem to hear him. He's just looking at Harry, bottom lip caught between his teeth, his gaze oddly warm. 

_That's hot,_ Draco whispers in Harry's mind. _You know I'm going to make you try that out on me in bed at some point, yes?_

"Oh, definitely," Harry murmurs, and Draco laughs, low and soft, as Harry turns back to the note Martine's sent. His heart sinks as he makes out what she's saying in her smeared scrawl. "Fuck," he says, echoing Jake, as Draco inhales sharply beside him. 

"What?" Parkinson leans forward, looking past Draco, her breasts pressed against the table. "It can't be that bad--"

"MACUSA knows Durant's here," Draco says, his voice flat, and Harry nods, folds the note back up and pushes it across the table to Jake. 

Harry runs his hands through his hair, breathes out. His gaze meets Jake's across the table. "We've maybe twenty-four hours, probably less. That's the best Martine and Espinoza can give us. They'll try to hold back the intel on us until the end of the workday, but that doesn't mean the Aurors won't come down here as soon as they know--"

"They're after me," Jake says, cutting Harry off. "Not y'all. Nothing Martine says indicates they know you're in Thibodaux." He looks around the table. "You could leave. Take that Portkey Hermione gave you home."

For a moment, Harry thinks about it. They could. And he hates himself, but he's tempted. They could all walk away; they could not get involved; they could tell themselves none of this has anything to do with them. It'd be easier. Maybe even better for all of them. 

Except Jake. 

Harry looks around the table, takes in Georgie's worried look, the tense set of Jake's shoulders. Whitaker's sat forward, her arms folded across her chest, her face grim, and Parkinson's beside her, the corners of her mouth drawn down at the corners. Zabini's not moving, barely breathing. All his focus is on Jake, and Harry wonders if he's regretting whatever it was they'd had words about. 

Maybe this isn't their fight. Maybe Harry should make them walk away from it.

Draco's hand settles on Harry's arm, the warmth of his fingers seeping through the cotton of Harry's shirt. "We won't," he says, and whilst he's looking at Jake, Harry knows he's speaking to him. "We're here for a reason." He chews on his lip; it slides wet and pink from between the sharp edges of his teeth as he glances up at Harry. "Whatever this artefact is, we have to find it before MACUSA or my wanker of an uncle. You know we do."

And Harry does. He draws in a careful breath, exhales it out. "Yeah," he says, and there's a determination in his voice that he's not certain he feels. Something isn't right about any of this, and he can't put his finger on it, but Harry can't shake the odd certainty he has that they're playing into someone's hands. Somehow. 

Whose hands and to what end, Harry hasn't a bloody clue. 

Still, this is his team, and they're looking at him now, wanting him to make this choice for them. Harry just hopes he doesn't make the wrong one, hopes that what he's about to say he doesn't end up regretting down the road.

"Jake and Whitaker'll go to the levee," Harry says, and an odd calm settles over him. "Georgie?" When she looks at him, her brows wrinkled, her arms crossed over her chest, Harry gives her as calming a smile as he can manage. "Can you get Draco and Parkinson to Nathalie Fontenot?" 

He thinks she's going to ask why, but instead, Georgie nods. "My truck is outside."

"Bril." Harry glances at Zabini. "You up for the historical society?"

"Not that I think it's any use," Zabini says, a bit tightly, "but fine." He doesn't look away from Jake, and Harry wonders if he should mix things up again, if Zabini should go with Jake instead of him. He almost suggests it, but something deep inside stops him. This is right, his intuition's telling him. It's how it's supposed to be. 

Harry just hopes he's not off his fucking nut. 

"Right," he says again, and he pushes his chair back and stands. "Georgie, before you go, help Zabini and me with the historical society coordinates. We can Apparate there." His gaze sweeps around the table, across the uncertain faces looking up at him. He stops on Draco, whose expression is calm. Almost serene. But Harry can feel Draco's tenseness, deep beneath the surface. Oddly, it settles him. He needs Draco to be unsure about this. It helps Harry, makes him think that his own unease isn't ill-founded. He draws in a deep breath, exhales. "We've a hell of a lot of work to do, and no bloody time to finish it. So let's go, and for fuck's sake, keep your mobiles on and your wands at the ready. Yes?"

"Yes, guv," Whitaker and Parkinson say together, and even Zabini nods as he stands. Draco gives Harry a small, faint smile.

_Well done._ And the soft brush of Draco's thoughts across Harry's calms him. Makes him think that maybe they can all make it through whatever's coming their way. Harry's no idea what that is, but he's a strong suspicion that none of them are going to like it.

Even if it does feel bloody foreordained.

***

The house on Canal Street is small, much smaller than any of the others around it, but it's in one piece--unlike the house next door, whose porch sags beneath the hurricane damage. The front garden's tidy, the unbroken windows gleam in the sunlight, and the house's wooden trim shines white against the red brick. Georgie stops her truck along the kerb, looking past Draco and Pansy to the bright blue door.

"You'll be careful with Miss Nathalie, won't you?" Georgie's fingers curl around the steering wheel, her thumb tapping out a nervous rhythm against the vinyl. "She's one of the good ones around here, even if she sets some people on edge. It's just that she knows things, you know, and she's not shy about telling you, if she needs to."

"She's a Seer?" Draco asks, his curiosity piqued. He's never met an actual one, unless you count Trelawney, and Draco's still not certain she wasn't a fluke, whatever the Dark Lord or Dumbledore might have thought. Neither of them had ever had to sit through a bloody class with her, that's for fucking certain.

Georgie hesitates, then she says, "Not really. I mean, I don't know that she'd call herself that. She just says she knows things sometimes, and most of those times she's right. Anyway, everyone knows she gives good advice, and if it's over a cup a tea or a set of Tarot cards, who's to care?" 

"You're rather protective of her, aren't you?" Pansy asks as she tucks an escaped curl behind her ear. She eyes Georgie. "Durant was too, in his own way."

"So?" Georgie lifts her chin, defiant. "We all liked Miss Nathalie. Jake used to bring me over sometimes when he was visiting Davina, and when he went away, I kept coming by to talk to her. Brought my own friends with me sometimes, and she never minded. Miss Nathalie's door was always open for us magical kids. She said we ought to have a place to go to if we needed one, and if that was her house, then she was happy to be here. I can't tell you how many times I cried at her kitchen table over some stupid boy." Georgie's face softens. "Told her things I'd never share with my own mama." She looks over at both of them. "Or Daddy for that matter. He'd have beat the shit out of one or two of the Thibodaux boys if he knew some of the things they'd tried." Her face shifts, tightens ever so slightly. "I didn't want to get him in trouble with the No-Majs. Some of them are afraid of us as it is."

Draco can imagine Rufus Durant might have done more than deck a teenager if anyone hurt his daughter. The two of them might have a volatile relationship, but even a complete stranger can see that Rufus loves Georgie, whatever she might think. He supposes it's not unlike what his own relationship with Lucius had been, particularly in recent years, and that makes Draco's heart ache a bit. Some days it feels like ages since he'd lost his father--and maybe it has been, in a way--and others he's all too aware it's only been a month. 

Well, a month and two days, he thinks, and that's an odd thought, that realisation that Sunday had been the thirteenth, that he'd been so caught up first in Harry and that bloody _Prophet_ article, and then in leaving for the States that the anniversary had barely registered for him. 

And yet it'd explained his mother's pale face over breakfast at Andromeda's on Saturday morning, the way she'd sometimes drifted off, looking past them all as if she was lost in some other world, only to be drawn back to them by Teddy's laughter, a small, polite smile curving her lips without reaching her eyes. Draco hadn't realised it then; he'd been too glad to have Harry pressed against his side, too worried about his mother's revelation that Les Harkaway might be half-arsed related to him in some twisted, turned-about way. 

That's something Draco hasn't wanted to think about either. He's pushed it out of his mind, focussed instead on Durant's family and Thibodaux the past two days. It's easier than to drive himself round the bloody twist, grieving for his bastard of a father and worrying about his terrifyingly mad uncle and that idiotic spawn of his. At least Harkaway doesn't carry Aunt Bella's genetic code as well. The idea that she might have reproduced is utterly horrifying to Draco. 

"We'll be careful," Pansy says to Georgie, her voice gentle. "She's not a suspect; we've no need to rattle her any." 

Draco hopes they don't, at least. But he's determined to walk back out of that small house with some sort of useful information, whatever it might be. With MACUSA breathing down their necks, he hasn't any other choice. They need answers, and they've no time to be dallying about. Not any longer. 

Georgie nods, then opens her door. "All right. But first sign I see of y'all being dicks, I'm marching the both of you right back out here, understand?"

Pansy exchanges an even look with Draco--one he tries to ignore--then says, "Completely." She nudges him until he slides out of the cool shadows of the truck cab and into the sweltering heat that shimmers up from the grey, stained pavement. It takes a moment for Draco to get used to the soft buzz of magic that strikes the soles of his feet when he touches the ground again. It'll fade away soon enough, he's realised, slipping into the back of his mind so he's barely aware of it, but it's that first touch that always jolts Draco a bit, like the sharp spark of static in a dry winter, a small reminder that this town's built around magic somehow, that it runs through the very earth beneath Thibodaux, the way it does in the chalk of Wiltshire, the granite of Scotland, the rivers of London that twist and turn through the city until they reach the Thames. Magic always finds a way to move, to live, to thrive. 

Magic will always be an untamed force of its own, uncontrollable in ways, no matter how much his kind might try.

Draco runs a finger beneath his collar as they make their way up the steps to the blue door. There's a swing on one end of the porch, its white paint peeling a bit on the arms, the seat piled with blue and green pillows. It sways ever so slightly in the still, humid air, as if pushed by an unseen hand, and prickles of unease spread across Draco's nape before he shakes the feeling away. He's being ridiculous, he knows. It's just Thibodaux, really, that makes him think he's about to see a ghost around every bloody corner. 

Still he looks over at the swing again, his eyes sliding past it to the darkened window of the house next door. He almost thinks he sees a flash of silvered hair, the curve of a pale cheek reflected in it, but he blinks and there's nothing but a glint on the glass from the sun above. Draco shakes his head, certain his mind's playing silly buggers.

Not that his dream from last night helps, Draco supposes. He'd played it down for Harry and the others this morning, but it'd felt so real, as if he could reach out and touch his father, as if Lucius had woken him in the very room he'd been sleeping beside Harry. _Go home,_ his father had said, and his face had been twisted in worry, the way Draco'd seen it during those last years of the war. _Get out. Run._

A shiver goes down Draco's back even thinking about it now. He'd woken up in a sweat, Harry still snoring softly into his pillow, and it'd taken a good hour or so for Draco to fall back asleep. Shagging Harry this morning had helped dispel some of the lingering discomfort from the dream, but it's not entirely gone. Not yet at least. 

Georgie knocks on the blue door, two sharp raps that echo in the quiet of the street. Draco can hear children's shouts in the distance, most likely from the community swimming pool they'd passed a few houses back. He looks over his shoulder, at the bright sunlight glinting off the windscreen of Georgie's pickup, at the house across the road that has black marks painted across the plywood over the windows. He thinks he sees a movement in the bushes beneath the plywood, and he frowns, but then a too thin cat slips out beneath the glossy green leaves, a mouse dangling from its mouth, and darts off around the corner of the porch. Circe, but he's being ridiculous, Draco thinks, but he still shudders, then turns back around, just as the door swings open. 

Nathalie Fontenot is beautiful. Even more so than her daughter, in Draco's opinion. She's tall and dark-skinned, her nose wide, her lips thick, her dark curls cropped close to her head, streaks of silver at her temples. That's the only sign of her age; her skin is flawless and unwrinkled in a way that Draco's mother would envy. The look she turns on them is careful, cautious. "Ça va, Georgie?" 

"Good, Miss Nathalie," Georgie says with a wide smile.

"Lottie too?" Nathalie seems too relax a little.

Georgie laughs. "She and Marie-Thérèse are probably down by the bayou with Lou-lou driving the poor woman crazy. I told her she ought to just take 'em to a movie today, but you know Lou-lou. Thinks the girls need fresh air."

"Won't hurt, I say. You used to spend half the summer on your bike trailing after my Davina, as I recall." Nathalie leans against the door, her gaze flicking towards Draco and Pansy. "Y'all the nosy Brits my daughter said want to talk to me, I'm guessing?" Her voice is low and melodious, the Thibodaux drawl softening the edges of her words. She gives them a faint smile. "Not that Davina needed to say, really. I've been expecting you to stop by."

And news travels fast in Thibodaux, Draco thinks, perhaps a bit bitterly.

"I'm Pansy Parkinson and this is Draco Malfoy." Pansy has her best manners on, the ones that've charmed many a Slytherin mother, including Draco's own, much to Narcissa's chagrin. "If you wouldn't mind a quick chat? We won't take but a moment of your time."

Nathalie studies her. "I'm sure you'll take more than that, my dear," she says, but she opens the door a little wider, steps back to let them into the tiny foyer. The floors of the small house are polished wood, Draco notices, a gleaming walnut that carries throughout the ground floor and up the narrow stairs, a perfect contrast with the creamy walls. He follows Pansy into the sitting room; it's bright and airy thanks to the wide bay window on the side wall and the white-and-rose chintz upholstery on the two sofas flanking the fireplace. White shelves line the room, filling the walls with splashes of colour from the book spines, as well as the occasional geode or potted plant being used as a bookend. Photographs, wizarding and Muggle, are scattered across the chimneypiece in pewter frames, along with a spray of lavender roses in a silver vase. It's a cosy room, smelling of lemon oil and sunlight and something sweetly spicy Draco can't quite place that's warm and inviting. Draco relaxes the moment he crosses the doorstep. 

"Have a seat," Nathalie says, and she sweeps past him to settle herself on one of the sofas, long and lithe and elegant in her sleeveless purple jumper and her loose white trousers. Her feet are bare, but her toenails are painted a vivid red that flashes in a scarlet arc as she crosses one leg over the other.

Draco and Pansy take the sofa across from Nathalie; Georgie sits a bit gingerly on the edge of Nathalie's sofa, tugging at the frayed hem of her denim shorts. She looks utterly awed yet adoring every time she glances over at Nathalie, and Draco wonders how often she'd been here when she was younger. This isn't going to be easy, he thinks. 

An awkward silence stretches out between them all for a moment. Nathalie watches them, and Draco can feel her distrust from across the coffee table. She doesn't know how to take them, he realises, and he doesn't blame her. He suspects the only reason she's even speaking to Pansy and him is because her daughter asked her to. And perhaps because Georgie's here to help ease the awkwardness a bit, even if she does look like a golden-haired puppy eager to be scratched behind the ears. He can't fault her that; it seems to be a Durant family trait, as much as he thinks they'd all protest otherwise. It's that same unpolished charm he's seen in Eddie Durant, not to mention lurking under the more suave surface of his little brother.

"What did your daughter tell you about us?" Draco asks finally, and Nathalie's gaze shifts towards him. Her eyes are wide and dark, and Draco feels as if she can see through him. She blinks, and that certainty passes. 

"Davina said you wanted to know about Élodie." Nathalie doesn't look away from Draco. "You're friends of Jakey's."

"Colleagues, actually," Pansy says, and she leans forward, her elbows on her knees. "He's trying to find out some family history his parents might have hidden from him. Especially anything you might know about some sort of artefact, perhaps?" She watches Nathalie, and Draco knows her forensically trained mind's taking everything in, from the way Nathalie sits, her hands clasped over her knees, to the way her gaze falters, dropping to the tidy stack of art books on the glass-topped coffee table. 

Nathalie's silent for a long moment, and then she sighs, her lips pressed together. "You want to know about the artefact?" she says quietly, and she looks up at Pansy. "Then you have a little chit-chat with Ωthe Robichaus. We Wrights weren't good enough to hear about any of that, 'cept for the rumours that went around time to time. Even Élodie wouldn't talk about it with me, and I know her mama'd told her things."

"What rumours?" Draco tries not to sound too interested, but Nathalie eyes him anyway. He shrugs. "It might help our enquiry."

That earns him a snort. Nathalie exchanges a look with Georgie, who clears her throat and says, "You got to understand that the Robichaus aren't always liked around here. They're a bit…" She hesitates, glances back over at Nathalie again. 

"They're bad-awful snobs," Nathalie says. "Now mind, Élodie's mama was all right. She didn't cross the street when some of the rest of us walked by like her brother Luc did." Her mouth tightens. "Our magic wasn't good enough for him. Wasn't the right sort. He thought we were just rougarouin’." She looks disgusted. "Asshole." 

Pansy frowns at her. "What do you mean?"

There's a silence in the sitting room until Georgie sits forward. "There are some families around here that aren't educated--" She makes quote marks in the air around the word. "--enough for the Robichaus. The Wrights for one. Durants as well. Some of the Fontenot clan--"

"Mais, Luc Robichau nearly had a fit when his sister Léonie ran off to Baton Rogue and married Étienne," Nathalie says. "The way I heard it, he and his daddy nearly had the whole marriage annulled when they got back, but Léonie put her foot down." A small smile quirks the corners of Nathalie's mouth. "She was little, but something fierce, let me tell you. Told her daddy straight up that he couldn't do a damned thing about it, pardon my French, seeing as how she'd had the wedding night already."

"Came in handy when Étienne got riled up about Élodie marrying Jasper," Georgie says. She looks over at Draco and Pansy. "She wasn't happy about that either, but she said she wasn't going to do to her daughter what her father'd tried to do to her."

Nathalie frowns. "She probably should have, all things considered. Jasper always was charming, but he was still a jackass when he wanted to be. And stubborn as hell to boot. He and Élodie argued more than anyone knew. Well. Anyone other than me and my Matthieu--may the good Lord rest his soul. Jasper and Élodie had more than one tangle in front of us. But they always tried to keep the boys out of it when they could."

"Did she ever think of leaving him?" Pansy asks.

"All the time." Nathalie shakes her head. "Lord, Élodie'd get so mad at that bastard, she could nearly spit. But, I have to say, she loved Jasper. More than anyone other than those boys of hers, I'd say. She'd do anything for Jasper Durant." Nathalie bites her lip, twists her hands together. Her shiny, crimson thumbnail scratches over one brown knuckle. "Even if it killed her in the end."

Draco stills, watching her. Nathalie stands up, walks over to the bay window, looking out through the lace curtains. 

"She died of cancer," Draco says after a moment. "That's what Durant says."

"He's not wrong." Nathalie folds her arms over her chest. She plays with a small, gold cross that hangs from her neck. "She did."

"But?" Pansy's voice is quiet.

Nathalie looks back at them, framed by the creamy lace curtain panels, the bright green leaves of the tree just outside. "She did something for Jasper," she says finally. "Élodie never would tell me what it was, not exactly, but I knew it caused the cancer, whatever she might say. I could see it in her, growing. See it taking away her life, bit by bit, and I knew it was dark." She swallows, draws in an unsteady breath. "It wasn't natural, you know, eating away at her neuromagical cortex that way. Even the Healers didn't know what to do about it. Élodie'd never been sick in her whole damn life, and we'd been best friends since the both of us were knee-high to a grasshopper, so I'd know. And all of a sudden she was wasting away after that bastard husband of hers was hauled off to Oudepoort for killing a man. Élodie was so angry at them all--Jasper, the Aurors, Luc Robichau for calling them." 

Nathalie rubs her hands over her face, and Draco can feel the anguish radiating from her. She loved Élodie Durant, Draco realises. Like a sister, and losing her still hurts. He wants to reach out to Nathalie, to tell her he understands, that he misses Vince even now, that there are some days he wishes he could still talk to him, still hear those ridiculous jokes Vince liked to tell late at night in the Slytherin common room, still sit silently beside him beside the Hogwarts lake watching the Squid splash tentacles through the water. 

Draco knows he's still angry about how things ended, how Vince turned on him in the end, how Vince's anger and hatred had nearly killed all of them in the Room of Requirement. But he and Vince had been friends since childhood, and that matters, in its own way. 

Nathalie draws in a slow breath, then exhales, her steepled fingers pressed against her lips. "Élodie said no one else got blamed for it but Jasper and that wasn't right, but she wouldn't ever tell me anything else. Just that some other man got off scott-free, and Jasper took the fall for both of them."

"Do you know who that man was?" Draco asks, but Nathalie's already shaking her head. 

"The thing is, by that time, Élodie and I weren't as close." Nathalie folds her arms again, slides her fingertips over her elbows as if she could comfort herself, clutch herself tighter. "I had my Davina and Andrew to be thinking about, and Matthieu too, and I just…" She exhales. "I couldn't listen to her excuse Jasper much more." Her gaze slides over to Georgie. "Sorry, baby."

Georgie shakes her head. "Mama says the same. She was worried about Aunt Élodie, but there wasn't any reasoning with her over Uncle Jas, was there?"

Nathalie doesn't answer. Instead she walks over to the fireplace and picks a photograph up from the chimneypiece, looking down at it. She's silent for a long moment, and then she sighs. "The last three years were the worst. I went to see her nearly every day towards the end. Had to, you know?" She touches the photograph with a fingertip. "It nearly killed Jakey, watching his mama go like that. Eddie couldn't handle it; he ran away as soon as he could." She hands the photograph to Pansy. "She wasn't even forty yet."

Draco looks over Pansy's shoulder. Two women smile up from the centre of the frame, waving at them, their shoulders pressed together as they sit on a hospital bed. One's obviously Nathalie Fontenot, younger but just as beautiful. The other woman's pretty, her smile wide and warm, just like Durant's, Draco thinks, but her hair's gone, and her cheeks are gaunt and pale. Her collar bones jut out from beneath her t-shirt; her arms are far too thin. He's looking at a woman wasting away, Draco realises, the cancer inside of her destroying her body, her life. Still, there's something that's captivating about Élodie Durant, something that Draco can't quite tear his eyes away from. Something almost ethereal, otherworldly in the way she moves. It almost reminds him of his cousin Luna, but it's different. He can't really explain how or why.

"Élodie Durant," Pansy says softly, just as Draco catches sight of a young boy in the corner of the frame, almost hidden by the pillows piled up on the bed. His face is somber beneath a tousle of blond curls. 

"The one and only." Nathalie's smiling now, and it lights up her face, makes her look like she's barely older than them, Draco thinks. He looks back at the boy--young Jake Durant, so scrawny and small as he hides from the camera's flash, his tanned skin washed out by the soft burst of light, his thin frame not yet solidified, broadened by puberty. What must it have been like, Draco wonders, to watch his mother die like that? He studies Durant, the way that boy's gaze shifts towards his mother when she winces--barely noticeable, but Draco catches the way her face twists ever so slightly, and he knows Durant must have as well. 

"She was in pain," Draco murmurs, and he wants to reach out for that boy, wants to tell him he'll be all right in the end, however frightened he might be at the moment about what's coming. 

Nathalie's smile fades. "She was. Not even pain potions helped those last few months. They put her on morphine, but it made her…" She sighs. "Not Élodie." Nathalie reaches for the picture frame again. Pansy lets her take it. Nathalie looks down at her old friend, and Draco thinks her lip trembles, just a bit. "I miss her," Nathalie murmurs, and she puts the picture back on the chimneypiece. "It's been twenty years, you know. Next week." 

And that makes Draco lean forward, his Auror senses on high alert. "Next week?" Durant hadn't mentioned that. Draco doesn't know whether or not to be suspicious of that fact. 

Nathalie gives him a surprised look. "Jake didn't say?" When Pansy shakes her head, Nathalie frowns. "Maybe he'd rather not think about it. He always was the one who didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to mark the day." The furrow between her brows deepens. "He wasn't like Eddie in that regard." 

"Jakey's not like Eddie in any regard," Georgie says, and Nathalie gives her faint smile. 

"I suppose not, no." Nathalie walks back over to the sofa, sits down. The chintz wrinkles beneath her thighs as she settles against the arm of the sofa, and she looks over at Draco. Sunlight filters through the lace curtains, warming her brown skin. "I don't know what else I can tell you about any of this."

Pansy uncrosses her legs, shifts to the edge of the sofa. "Is there anything else odd about Élodie or Jasper? Anything the rest of Thibodaux wouldn't know?"

Nathalie throws back her head and laughs, a low, throaty chuckle that echoes in the room. "Oh, honey, everything about Élodie and Jasper was strange. Even by Thibodaux standards. I always told Élodie she wasn't quite of this world, you know? Mama used to say she had the touch of the fey. Bits of the Sight, but not enough to train. Not like some of the rest of us."

"You mean like you," Georgie says, and Nathalie raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. 

"The Wrights always did have a talent with it," Nathalie says. She rests her forearms on her knees, leaning forward slightly. "But Élodie…" She hesitates, studying Draco for a long moment, as if she's feeling him out. Draco doesn't look away; he lets his mind brush against hers, feels the curiosity and the indecision hovering at the surface of her thoughts. 

_You can trust me,_ he pushes out, softly, carefully, the way Murie Burke had taught him. Not enough that Nathalie can hear him, but enough that she can feel the gist of it, deep inside. _You can trust all of us._

Nathalie closes her eyes, breathes out. When she opens them again, she twists her hands together, the diamond on her left hand catching a bit of sun. It flashes bright, but Draco doesn't look away, Nathalie leans back. "When we were growing up, Élodie used to joke that she didn't actually belong to her mama and her daddy. Not the way Eulalie did. And they were different, across the board. Eula was more solid. Grounded. They didn't even look the same, Élodie with her blonde curls, going from happy to angry in flash sometimes, and Eula all dark and serious and bookish. But I always thought she was just laughing about it, the way kids always do when they think their mama and daddy don't understand them." She looks over at Georgie. "This one here? Mais, she used to pretend she'd been kidnapped from her real parents every time she got her butt hided."

Georgie grins at her. "Mama'd get so mad at me for saying that, 'specially when Davina'd go tattle on me about it."

Nathalie shakes her head, and Draco's struck again by how intertwined all their lives are. He supposes that happens in most magical communities. Even London in its own way. "Susette spent two whole days trying to birth you, so I don't blame her." 

"But Élodie?" Pansy asks, and Nathalie looks over at her. "Was she pretending?" Pansy keeps her voice quiet, gentle, and Draco knows he was right to ask for her to come with him. Pansy's a damn good field Auror. Draco just wishes she could see it in herself. It's been good for her to get out of the lab with Seven-Four-Alpha this summer; sometimes Draco thinks she hides away behind her science more than she should. 

"There was a point I would have said yes." Nathalie heaves a sigh, twists her diamond ring around her finger. It's simple, just a gold band and a small stone, round and shining. Her husband must have given it to her, Draco thinks. He's surprised that she's still wearing it, if he's dead, but then he thinks of his mother and how she's kept her own wedding rings on this past month. He wonders if he'd do the same if he lost Harry, and that thought nearly takes his breath away. He can't imagine life without the bastard now, can't imagine going home to his own flat, alone. It's why he'd said yes last night to moving in with Harry, officially. Grimmauld already feels like home to him. Like his own house. Their house together. Draco thinks he should be frightened of that, of letting himself get lost in Harry so soon, but he can't be. 

Harry's his, and Draco thinks maybe he always has been.

Pansy nudges his knee with hers, and Draco realises that he hasn't been paying attention, not the way he ought to have been. He looks up at Nathalie; she hasn't noticed, he thinks. 

"One time when I went to see Élodie," Nathalie says, slowly, her brow furrowed as she rubs her thumb over the diamond in her ring, "about a week before she passed on, she told me she knew for a fact her parents weren't her parents. Begged me not to tell Jake or Eddie 'cause she didn't want Jake to end up with the Durants, and she thought Eddie'd throw a fit if he knew his mamère and papère weren't blood kin."

"Aunt El always was smart," Georgie says, half under her breath.

Draco raises an eyebrow. "So Élodie was adopted." Which would make her _not_ a Robichau, Draco thinks, or not one by blood at least, so whatever artefact she and her mother had been protecting might not require an hereditary component to activate. Unless Élodie was lying about her familial ties. Draco's sceptical enough to keep that option open. It's been his experience that everyone lies, and it's making him curious how people here in Thibodaux speak of Élodie Durant like she was a bloody saint. No one's that good, Draco thinks. Not even Jake Durant's mother.

"Found," Nathalie corrects him. "Or so she said. Remember, she was half off her mind on morphine by that time. She said her parents just found her one day, on the edge of the bayou when she wasn't more than a tadpole herself. I don't remember this, and my view is that the drugs were making her imagine things that weren't true, but I mentioned it to Étienne once, years back, and he got mad enough to tell me to mind my own damn business, so…" She holds up her hands. "Maybe it means something, maybe nothing, but I've a real strong urge to tell you that, and I've learned when I feel that, I need to say whatever it is on my mind." 

"Thank you," Draco says, and he means it. He meets Nathalie's gaze, lets his mind brush lightly against hers again. She's telling them the truth, or the truth as she knows it at least, however unsettling it might be to her. 

Nathalie nods, then she eyes Pansy for a long, uneasy moment before standing up again. "Georgie, cher, come see me in the kitchen, will you? I have something I want to give these folks before they leave."

Georgie looks surprised, but, with a quick glance at Draco and Pansy, she pushes herself up off the sofa and follows Nathalie through the arched opening between the sitting room and the dining room, disappearing around the corner. 

"That's fucking odd," Pansy says, her voice low, and Draco can't help but agree. 

"All of it." Draco leans over the cushion between them. "Do you think Élodie Durant's was off her nut at the end?"

Pansy chews her lip. Not a smudge of the red lipstick gets on her teeth; she must have charmed it in place this morning, Draco thinks. It doesn't surprise him, really. Her makeup's stayed pristine in the heat. She sighs finally. "It wouldn't surprise me. Treatments for magical cancer are difficult to go through. Our bodies don't react the way Muggles do to options like chemotherapy or radiation, and there hasn't been a lot of work amongst Healers on neuromagical cancers. They're relatively new--or at least our ability to diagnose them properly and not attribute them to something like a hex or a curse is new."

"So she could have been a bit addled?" Draco asks. He's not sure if he wants Élodie to have been making it all up or not. Either way, Durant's going to be unhappy about all of this. Draco's certain about that. He worships his mother, and Draco understands that. When a father is determined to destroy his family, there has to be a parent a child can trust. 

"Perhaps," Pansy says, but her voice is hesitant. "She also might have been telling the truth--or the truth as she understood it. Being that close to death does sometimes bring a clarity to one's experiences and a need to share things that might have been left unsaid for years previously."

Draco leans back into the arm of the sofa, thoughtful. "So how the bloody hell do we know which it might have been for her?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Pansy says, and then she falls silent as Nathalie comes back through the doorway, Georgie trailing behind her, looking a bit worried. 

Nathalie has a small leather pouch in her hand, tied tight with a thin woven rope; she lets it slide through her fingers, the pouch swinging from them, slow and steady. She stops next to Pansy, who looks up at her, a curious expression on her face. Draco doesn't know what's happening, but he can tell it means something to Nathalie.

"I've been keeping this for a while," Nathalie says, and she takes Pansy's hand, curls Pansy's fingers around the pouch. Pansy flinches ever so slightly, and Nathalie gives her a sympathetic smile. "It's powerful stuff," she says. "Graveyard dirt and some iron nails dug up from a crossroads on a full moon. Bits of other things I've been compelled to tuck in there as well." She hesitates, as if she's struggling with herself, and then she lets out a huff of breath. "Something's telling me there's someone you know who'll need it. Soon, maybe, but I don't know, if I'm honest." Her laugh's bittersweetly warm. "Really, I've no idea why I've been collecting it together. I just had a feeling I had to, and when you walked in, I started think maybe it might have been for you, cher."

Pansy turns the pouch between her palms. "How will I know?" she asks, and Draco's surprised that she's not questioning more of this. Pansy can be rather sceptical when she wants to be; it's the magiforensicologist in her. 

"You just will, honey," Nathalie says, and she rests a hand on Pansy's shoulder. "When the time is right, the gris-gris will tell you. Keep it near. Might be now, might be months away, but it's going to help someone at the time they need it."

"Who?" Pansy asks, but the moment her fingers close tighter around the pouch, Draco feels the wave of magic that rolls through the room. 

Nathalie looks a bit sad. "If I knew that, I'd tell you. I promise. But…" She lets her hand slide off Pansy's shoulder. "Whoever needs it will be fighting a mighty curse, and you're the one who'll need to help break it. The pouch will let you know everything when it's ready. That's how that sort of magic works." She wobbles a bit, and Georgie steadies her, her hand on Nathalie's elbow. Nathalie touches Georgie's arm. "Thank you, baby." She looks back over at Pansy and Draco. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm a bit tired…" 

She does look a bit grey around the edges, Draco thinks, and he bumps Pansy's elbow as he stands. A frisson of something powerful goes through him that he doesn't expect. "We appreciate your help Mrs. Fontenot." He eyes the pouch suspiciously. Whatever's in there, he's not certain he trusts it. 

Georgie follows them to the door; she lingers behind a moment, saying something low to Nathalie as Draco walks down the steps, Pansy behind him. He looks over at Pansy, his gaze falling to the pouch again. "What's in there?" 

"I'm not going to open it right now, you twit," Pansy says. "Even I'm not that rude." She glances back to Georgie and Nathalie on the porch, then lowers her voice. "You think she was serious back there?"

"She thinks she is," Draco says, and the heat's pounding down against his shoulders again, causing his shirt to stick to his skin. He misses the coolness of Nathalie's front room. "And that's all that really matters, isn't it?"

Pansy makes a soft noise of assent as Georgie comes down the steps, her sandals slapping against the concrete. 

"Y'all ready?" Georgie asks, but she doesn't wait for them to answer as she heads around the bonnet of the pickup. 

"What was all that?" Pansy asks Georgie as she follows her to the other side of the truck, but Georgie just shakes her head. 

"Miss Nathalie said you needed it," Georgie says, looking across the windscreen at them. "And it's powerful. That's all you got to know." 

Draco thinks there's something she's not telling them. "Georgie," he says. "What--"

Georgie's mouth thins. "I told you Miss Nathalie knows things. Y'all got to trust her, man. No way she's going to steer you wrong. Not when y'all are helping the Durant boys. Jake and Eddie? They're practically hers too. Whatever's in that pouch…" She nods at the bag still cupped in Pansy's hand. "It's what y'all need."

"All right," Pansy says, and Draco knows she's just trying to appease Georgie right now. She tucks the pouch in her bag. "Come on, Draco. I think we need to talk to the guv." Draco knows what she's leaving unsaid. _And show him this--whatever the fuck it is._

Nathalie watches them from the porch, her face hidden in the shadows. Draco looks back at her as he opens the truck door, lets Pansy slide across the white vinyl bench seat. He's just about to follow her when Nathalie calls out, "You tell Eddie he needs to be careful, you hear?"

Draco stills, his hand on the edge of the door, warmed by the sun. "You mean Jake?"

The shadows pull back as Nathalie moves towards the steps, revealing the annoyance on her face. "If I meant Jake, I would have said him." Her voice is sharp; she leans against one of the porch columns. "It's Eddie who needs watching after. Just remember that when the time comes, all right?"

All Draco can do is nod. He's not sure what to say, if he's honest, but the way Nathalie's looking at him, determined and fierce, makes his scepticism fade. "I will," he says after a moment, and Nathalie's shoulders slump in relief. 

"Thank you," she says. "Don't let him do anything stupid."

A car rumbles up the street behind them, its engine sputtering as it passes. Nathalie doesn't seem to notice it; she keeps her gaze fixed on Draco. It's hot here on the kerb, and Draco wants to tell Nathalie that Eddie's not even in town right now, but something stops him. Instead, he looks over at the house beside hers, at the destruction that's still visible, the sag of the porch, the bright blue tarp spread across the roof. He glances back at Nathalie. "How'd you stay safe?" he asks. "The hurricane didn't touch your house."

Nathalie gives him a small smile. "I knew it was coming two months ahead," she says. "Did what I could to get my wards in place. Did the same for anyone else around here who'd listen to me." She folds her arms over her chest, looks around the street, her mouth set, her brow furrowed. "Not everyone wanted to hear me." Her voice wavers just enough for Draco to notice. 

"I won't be that foolish," Draco says after a moment, realising with surprise that he means it. Nathalie nods. 

"Never thought you would be, Draco Malfoy," she says. She studies his face silently, then sighs. "You better remember you're a hell of a lot stronger than you think." Her eyes are dark, gleaming. "You're gonna need that strength. Don't forget you have it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Draco says, trying to keep his voice light, but something heavy and uneasy settles in the pit of his stomach. He looks into the truck, at Pansy and Georgie, both of whom are frowning over at him. Draco takes a deep breath and slides into the cab, closing the door behind him. 

Pansy touches his thigh, ever so lightly. "All right?" she asks, watching him, and Draco tries his best to smile. 

"Utterly," he manages to say, and as Georgie's charm catches the ignition, Draco looks back out the window at Nathalie, still standing on the first step, her face wrinkled with worry. "We'll be fine." Draco doesn't quite know who he's talking to: Nathalie, Pansy or himself. Maybe all three of them, he thinks, as Georgie eases the pickup away from the kerb. 

Draco exhales, leaning his forehead against the smooth window glass. It's cool against his skin. Calming in its own way. 

Something's coming, he thinks, as the houses slide away, into a blur of colour in the corner of his eye. He just hopes they're bloody prepared for it. 

Whatever it might be.

***

Harry and Zabini Apparate to the safe spot on the map of Thibodaux that Georgie'd shown them in the Acadian's dining room, popping into a shady, well-treed area just outside of the iron fence of the graveyard at Saint Thomas Aquinas. When he lands, his trainers thumping against the pavement, Harry looks around carefully, but no one seems to have noticed them appear out of thin air. He breathes a sigh of relief. Georgie had told them there were wards up here for magical folk to use, but the way the wizarding and No-Maj worlds are tangled up in Thibodaux, Harry hadn't been certain how strong they'd be.

"All right?" Harry asks Zabini, and Zabini just nods.

"Fine," Zabini says after a moment, but only because Harry eyes him. "If we're going to do this, let's go, guv. Twenty-four hours or less, remember?"

And Harry does. All too well. What he's worried about though is what'll happen to his team if they're caught here in Thibodaux. Tom Graves might have signed off on permission for them to be here, but Harry's pretty bloody certain the new Director of Magical Security for MACUSA isn't going to be honouring that. Not with Martine's warning. What he's not going to tell his team, though, is what she'd implied in it. That if any of them are caught by the Aurors, they'll be brought up on national security charges, and Harry'd been with Jake long enough to know exactly what MACUSA means by that. Open-ended interrogation and detention. Held without recourse. 

Possibly even tortured. 

Harry hopes Draco hadn't seen that part of it when he'd read Martine's message over Harry's shoulder. Harry doesn't think he had, or if Draco did, he doesn't know what it meant. But Harry does, and he's worried. He wants to finish this up, to get his people--Jake included--out of here before MACUSA closes in on them. 

He just wishes he had a fucking idea of how to do that. 

"This way," Harry says, and he starts down the pavement, Zabini trailing after him. Even in the shade of the high, leafy trees that line the street, the temperature is sweltering. When they round the church and get out into the full sun on Jackson Street, Harry can't believe how bloody hot it is. He's done assignments in Spain and Sicily, but the humidity of this part of Louisiana is scarcely to be believed.

Zabini's silent as they pass by Thibodaux Tire and Auto, now walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry, his arms folded over his chest. Harry doesn't really want to ask Zabini what's wrong; he and Zabini aren't on those terms, really, although he supposes they might be approaching them given that Zabini is fucking his ex and he's about to share a house with Zabini's best mate. And, really, somehow Jake's at the bottom of this snit--Harry's sure of it. He'd seen the too-nonchalant, charming but frozen look on Jake's face when Zabini had walked into the dining room at breakfast, a sure sign that Jake's thinking about something far too hard and withdrawing inside. He'd seen that plenty of times over the past two years. More so when Harry'd been living in New York with Jake, although he supposes he'd been doing the same.

Harry knows it's hard on Jake to be back here where his family's from, all those old hurts and troubles rising to the surface now in a way that Harry knows full well Jake's tried to ignore for over a decade now. Not to mention all the dangers facing them with the political shifts at MACUSA. Jake's never dealt with that sort of tension all that well. It makes him a bit of an arse at times, whether or not he means to be. And Zabini's clearly furious with Jake. Harry can feel the anger radiating off of him as they walk down the bleached pavement, the air rippling with heat even this early in the day. Still, Harry doesn't want to put a foot wrong, so he keeps his mouth shut and tries to keep them on the course Georgie'd made him memorize in the dining room.

"How much farther is it?" Zabini asks finally as they're waiting at a utility pole for a large, bubble-shaped American car to pass so they can cross over onto West Tenth Street.

Harry shades his eyes, looking up towards the water tower in the distance. "I think it's at the next street. I can see a mail lorry up ahead." Georgie'd told them it was across from the post office, and if they reached Canal Boulevard they'd gone too far.

It's not a long walk, but in the heat even a hundred feet feels like a mile. Harry's been sweating since they started, and now he feels rumpled and parched. He surreptitiously casts a cooling spell, letting it extend to Zabini as well.

Zabini stops for a second. "Perhaps a warning next time, guv?" He looks over at Harry, and then away again. "But thanks." It's grudging, but Harry doesn't mind. After three months of working with Slytherins and shagging Draco, he's used to their moods. You have to not care that much, Harry thinks. Or at least not let them know if you do. 

Harry shrugs. "No worries." He walks on, certain that Zabini'll keep up.

They reach the neat, white framed wood house with the heavy shutters and carefully cleared green lawn in the front. A small wooden plaque on the side of the porch reads _Thibodaux Historical Society, founded 1825._ Harry smoothes his hair back from his damp forehead and tries to straighten the rumpled collar of his shirt. From Zabini's amused snort next to him, he's only made his appearance worse. Zabini, by contrast, looks well-groomed despite the heat, a trait Harry envies desperately as they trudge up the porch stairs, their steps echoing on the weathered wood.

When they walk into the historical society, the shade and the cool of the aircon blowing full blast from the front window is immediately welcome. There's a desk to the side of the lobby and tall shelves lined with books along the walls. A young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen, Harry guesses, sits at the desk wearing a light summer dress that shows off her bare brown shoulders, her dark hair braided in a crown. She's looking at a Motorola Razr mobile. The case is a bit scratched, but Harry's still oddly surprised to see it here among the quiet of historical records and the faded black-and-white photos that hang above the desk. It feels out of place, out of time.

"Hello," Harry says, trying to get her attention. "We're here researching local families."

"Yes, sir." The girl looks up from her mobile. Her eyes take in Harry, then Zabini. They're suddenly more interesting; she sets the mobile down on a stack of file jackets and leans forward, across the calendar blotter on the desk. "Where y'all from?"

"Oxford," Harry says. Zabini snorts next to him again, and Harry knows it's in exasperation. Still, he doesn't know anything else to say--it's the first city that comes to mind.

"Oxford, Mississippi?" The girl looks surprised. "I hate to tell you, honey, but y'all don't sound like you're from Mississippi."

"No." Zabini smiles, and the girl smiles back, then looks down, almost shyly. "Oxford, England. We'd like to see papers related to the Robichau family, if you can help us locate them?"

When the girl laughs, Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. Zabini's charm is really exceptional. And it goddamned works on everyone. Harry hates that about the bloody man. 

"I reckon I can help with that." The girl rolls backward in her chair, then stands. Walking to the door to the back room, she says, "Miss Ida! It's those English people staying at the Acadian. They say they're from Oxford, and they want to know about the Robichaus."

Harry stomach flips. This is why he shouldn't have told a lie, he thinks wildly. They're going to be caught out, and Thibodaux is clearly smaller than he thought, at least in some circles.

Miss Ida comes bustling up from the back. She's a smiling, white-haired woman in sturdy, thick heeled shoes and a smart turquoise dress, reading glasses on a jeweled chain lying across her ample bosom, her face round and ruddy beneath the faintest hint of a tan. She sizes them up for a moment, then turns to the girl. "Rachel, sweetie, could you go collect the mail from the post office? I believe we have a package coming in today from Amazon." She looks over at Harry and whispers conspiratorially, "One of our local authors. If I don't put it on the bookshelves, she gets a bit miffed."

"Can't have that happening," Harry says lightly.

"Especially since she's the mayor's wife." Miss Ida smiles as Rachel collects a hat and a stack of mail from the basket on her desk. When the bells to the door jingle, and the door shuts, Miss Ida speaks again. "Welcome, Mr Potter." Harry flinches. She turns to Zabini. "And who might you be?"

"Blaise Zabini, ma'am." Zabini's smile is practically feral now. Harry knows his hand's hovering right above his wand, tucked in the waistband of his jeans; Harry's is too, if he's honest. 

Harry wonders if they're going to have to duel their way out of here. It'd be fucking foolish of them; their magical signatures could be tracked that way and the last thing Harry wants is to make things easy for MACUSA. He glances around the lobby, on high alert. He doesn't think there are Aurors hiding out here; all he can see is Miss Ida. He looks surreptitiously for her wand, or any indication that she's casting. 

Zabini shifts closer, and Harry knows he's going into a protective stance. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Charmed," Miss Ida says, smiling back at Zabini.

"How do you know who I am?" Harry asks. He wonders whether MACUSA's started circulating descriptions of them. He prays that he's wrong.

Miss Ida laughs. "You're Harry Potter. Thibodaux might be tucked away in rural Louisiana, but we're not so far away that we didn't get a report of the British war, you know. Besides, I've a cousin who married a Yorkshireman back in the Sixties. She likes to send me packages from Leeds, and she tucks the occasional Witch Weekly in." Something about her calm demeanour sets Harry at ease. She seems pleased to have identified him. "You're an Auror now, I've read. I'm assuming Mr Zabini here works with you on magical cases."

"Yes, ma'am." Harry relaxes, the cold lick of fear leaving his bones. "Are you a witch?"

She shakes her head. "No. I'm what your people call a Squib. Mama was a powerful witch. Went to Ilvermorny and thought about Vanderbilt afterwards, or so she said, but then she settled here and married Daddy and gave up her magic, Rappaport's Law be damned." Miss Ida sniffs at that. "I was twenty-five when that trash was repealed. Best day of my life, let me tell you. No more looking over my shoulder to make sure some Auror wasn't coming after me or my parents, saying we were breaking the law by me just existing. Probably what made me interested in history, all of that. Started off learning about my own families. Thought I'd help other people around here." She starts towards the open door behind the desk, then looks back over her shoulder. "Well, if you want to know about the Robichaus, come see, both of you."

They follow her into the back room. Heavy wooden cases line the walls and there's a microfilm reader in the corner and a desk in the center of the room. Miss Ida gestures for them to sit. "Everything's still on paper, you know. We do have some older film series for the Canadian records, but most of the local stuff is on the shelves."

"Canadian?" Zabini asks, his brow furrowed.

"Well, that's where some of our families came from, honey. Cajuns and Acadians, all part of the same folk." Miss Ida takes a few volumes down, burial records, a newspaper collection. "Afraid we don't have a lot on the Robichaus. They keep to themselves, and they're a bit different. Came from France directly, not through Canada like a lot of us, but I can show you what we have on that community you're interested in." She glances towards the open door, then lowers her voice. "There's a lot of mixing with the No-Majs here. Always has been, even when it wasn't legal. Most of us who've grown up here know about this, but be careful what you say around Rachel. She's studying history at Nicholls State right now, but she was raised up the bayou past Shreveport, so I don't know how much she knows about the way things are done here."

"Understood." Harry finds himself impressed with the calm way Miss Ida lays out local wizarding documents for them. Zabini immediately sits down at the desk to look through the papers, his black copper's notebook out of his pocket in a jiffy. When he pulls out a slim, silver barreled Muggle biro, Harry appreciates his ability to blend in with the environment, his forethought--it's one of the things that makes Zabini a great Auror. "Do you have anything about the Robichaus and Fontenots?"

Miss Ida turns a sharp gaze on him. "Why would you want that?"

For a moment, Harry thinks about lying, but he's fairly certain Miss Ida would see past anything he said. He rocks back on his heels, then says, "We're here with Jake Durant. It's his Robichau side we're interested in. His grandmother, actually."

"Hmm." Miss Ida just looks at Harry for a long moment. "Well, I can't say that I'm surprised by that."

"Why?" Zabini looks up from his papers. 

Miss Ida's quiet, then she sighs. "Léonie Fontenot always was a bit odd. Nice, my mama always said, but she kept to herself a lot. Seemed sad, too, except when she was with Étienne. Mama thought she was keeping secrets, but everyone thought that about the Robichaus from time to time."

Harry follows Miss Ida into the back stacks, helping her lift down a heavy volume and carry it over to the table where Zabini is working. He trails behind her again, back into the stacks, as she scans the shelves, frowning.

"So what else do the locals say about the family? Begging your pardon, of course, for the impudence." Harry doesn't know if he's laying it on too thick, but he hopes it comes off as polite. He half-wishes he could change places with Zabini right now. Or nick a bit of his charm.

Miss Ida's lips twist in a faint smile, her eyes fixed on the spines of the books in front of her. 

"Well," she says, "the general opinion is that the Robichaus are no better than they should be, but they look down their noses at everyone." She eyes Harry over her reading glasses. "They act like they belong somewhere better, and there's a rumour they were cursed to come here. Probably untrue. Plenty of people over the past few generations would like to think that, I'd say, and really, the Robichaus haven't ever said anything to stop it, so I reckon they like that history. None of us understand why they don't just move to New Orleans, except that Thibodaux's in the old river course, which is what brought all the wizarding families here, really. Although the magic's different now, they say." She purses her lips, then pulls out a black volume. "Aha! I knew I had it here."

She takes the volume back to Zabini and sets it down on the desk with a thump. A faint wisp of dust rises up from the pages. "Here's Léonie Robichau Fontenot's scrapbook. It should have some useful clippings and family details." She looks at Harry. "If you're friendly with Jake, you might be interested in this. It's his grandmother's, but her daughters Élodie and Eulalie continued it for a while." Her face softens. "Well, until Élodie passed on, God rest her soul."

Whilst Zabini opens up the thick, black bound volume, his hands shaking a little bit, Harry decides to keep talking to the archive keeper. "What can you tell us about the magic?" He's genuinely curious to hear what's going on with the energy in this area--he can feel the intensity of it everywhere.

Miss Ida eyes him. "You're feeling it, aren't you? Some people are more sensitive than others. It's the pent-up magic from the river, or at least that's what my mama used to say. It worried her some. She studied magical theory, you know, and she thought Thibodaux was getting too strong. Well, it's always been strong, but it was getting more so. Mama said there was too much magic building up here from the last hundred years since the government changed the flow."

This brings Harry up short. "They changed the flow of magic?"

"No, the river. It was dammed up at Donaldsonville in 1905." Miss Ida glances to the front door where the bells are jingling, indicating that Rachel has returned. "The Bayou Lafourche used to be a free-flowing river. The Acadians settled here, guided by people of your sort," she gives Harry a pointed glance, "because of the strength of it."

As Miss Ida moves in to the front of the building to talk to Rachel, Harry goes back to Zabini, who's carefully turning pages in the scrapbook that have grown foxed at the edges with age. There's a sheet of archival tissue carefully tucked in between each page of photographs. "See anything useful?"

Zabini tilts his head. "Not yet. Most of it's family events. Lots of pictures of Léonie with her girls." He stops at a page with a gilt-edged christening notice: Jacob Bouvier Durant. 

They both regard the tiny announcement for a moment, Harry thinking of the grandmother who saved everything. He wonders what Jake thought of Léonie, and what it must be like to have a grandmother. Harry'd never known his, on either side, and that'd always been something he'd been sad about. Aunt Petunia had pictures up in the house of her mother and father, but whenever Harry'd asked about them, she'd told him they wouldn't have cared to know a freak like him. Now Harry wonders if that's even true. After all, Molly Weasley dotes on her granddaughters and is excited about George's new one coming any day now. Harry thinks they're all lucky to have been born into a loving family, even if things can be a little difficult from time to time, and he can't imagine his own grandparents wouldn't have wanted to know him. Not when they obviously loved his mother enough to let her attend Hogwarts. Sometimes he wonders if he should look into his parents' families, learn more about who they were. He hasn't a clue about any of them, except knowing that somehow his father's family supposedly came from the fabled Peverells. He watches Zabini run a finger alongside the thin christening announcement.

"Arsehole," Zabini mutters. 

"He can be." Harry doesn't really want to get into the whole Jake dynamic right now. They've work to do, after all. But he can tell by the way Zabini's shoulders are tight that he's still narked off about this morning, whatever happened before they came down for breakfast. "He's really gone on you, you know. If he hasn't said anything."

Zabini shoots Harry a disbelieving look. "He has a piss-poor way of showing it, then."

Harry sighs, sits down at the table. "Yeah, well. Sometimes Jake's even worse about emotions than I am, whatever he thinks. He likes to believe he's straightforward, and he can be, but when it comes to things that matter, he gets...I don't know." Harry frowns, rubs at his jaw. He didn't shave closely enough this morning; there's a bit of stubble still there. "Stopped up or something. It's hard for him to say things, or he thinks he has and you should know that."

"Well, it's bollocks," Zabini mutters beneath his breath. 

"I know." Harry falls silent for a moment, then he looks over at Zabini. "Look, something happened to him, maybe when his mother died, maybe a little later. It made him careful about himself, about giving too much of himself up to other people." Harry shrugs. "For all I know it happened here." He gestures around them. "In Thibodaux, I mean, not the archives."

Zabini doesn't say anything for a long moment. He flips a page in the scrapbook, hiding away the christening announcement. "How do you know that he's gone on me?" he asks finally. "Has he told you something?" Zabini's face is shuttered as he looks at Harry, his eyes keen, and Harry knows how much it's costing Zabini to ask him that. 

Harry's lips quirk in a half-smile; he tries to be conciliatory with his tone. "Zabini, I've known Jake for a while. And I've never, ever seen him like the way he is when he's with you. I know he's a ridiculous bastard, but then again, we've all got our moments."

Zabini looks down at the album in his hands, already almost at the end of it. "I suppose we do."

And that, Harry thinks, is enough of that. Jake does have to work things out, Harry thinks. It's really none of Harry's business. But still, despite all this outside pressure, Jake shouldn't be pushing Zabini away right now. Not with the way they're both clearly mad about each other. 

He's saved from further conversation by Miss Ida coming back into the room. "Are you gentlemen finding what you need?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry says, with Zabini echoing a _yes, ma'am_ of his own. "We've got a lot to sort through. Thank you."

"Well." Miss Ida looks between them. "Once you're done here, you could go up to the university -- Ellender Library has a restricted section in the archives devoted to local history that might interest you." She's very careful not to say magical, but the meaning is clear. "You can tell Yvonne I sent you, and she'll let you in."

"We'll go through this first," Harry says, gesturing to the materials on the table. "We're grateful for the things you've pulled for us already." 

Miss Ida waves away the thanks, but is visibly pleased. "Rachel and I are about to take our mid-morning break. We like to walk up to the bakery on Jackson and have a bit of coffee and beignet. If you need to leave before we get back, we can set the door to lock behind you, if you like."

"Thank you, that would be brilliant." Harry is grateful for their hospitality, if only for a better picture of what life is like in the town. He just hopes they find something today--they haven't much time. He's no idea what they're looking for, but he has to keep trying to find something, anything that will help.

"Just leave everything on the table once you're done," Miss Ida says in stern tone. "I don't want you messing up my filing system."

Harry and Zabini promise to leave everything as is, then wave as the two women leave. Beyond the cool, dim lighting of the archive, the August sun looks blazing through the high, narrow front door.

The next half hour passes in silence as Harry and Zabini work side by side, Harry on the earlier Robichau history and Zabini on the later. Harry's just pieced together some early land transactions and something about a mausoleum with the Robichaus involved when Zabini utters a muffled curse.

Looking up, Harry sees Zabini holding a newspaper clipping in his hand, staring as though he's seen a ghost. Harry gets up and circles around behind him carefully, giving Zabini plenty of warning before looking over his shoulder. "Did you find something?"

"What the _fuck_ is my grandfather doing in a newspaper clipping from Thibodaux, Louisiana?" Zabini's voice is barely above a whisper, his body rigid with shock and perhaps rage, Harry's not entirely sure.

Harry takes the clipping from Zabini, scanning the moving figures, the text beneath it. The article is dated to 1982, and it's unmistakably Barachiel Dee in the photo. Harry looks a bit closer at the other figures. He wants to swear when he recognises one in particular. "More to the point, I'd say--" And fuck but Harry hopes this won't upset Zabini further. "What in Merlin's name is Jasper Durant doing standing next to him?"

"What?" Zabini asks, his voice low. 

"This man." Harry points towards a tall, blond man, his arm draped over Barachiel Dee's shoulder. "That's Jake's father. Jasper. I've seen a photo of him before." Jasper leans over in the photograph, whispers something in Dee's ear. Both of the men laugh. It's clear they know each other. Clear that there's a familiarity between them. A camaraderie even. 

"I don't understand," Zabini says. "My grandfather never said…" He trails off, looks back at the photograph. "What the hell is going on?"

Harry wishes he knew. He and Zabini regard each other in the cool of the unfamiliar room, answerless, and then Zabini is on his feet. 

"I have to go," Zabini says, his voice cracking, and Harry's moving back, trying to give Zabini some space.

"Hey," he starts to say, reaching for Zabini's arm, but Zabini pulls away, pushing his chair back beneath the desk. 

"Guv," Zabini says, and the look he gives Harry is anguished. "Just let me be. I need…" He trails off, his hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans. His eyes are wide and bright. "I need some time," he manages to get out. "Please."

Harry doesn't want to let him be alone. Not the way Zabini's looking right now. "It's just a photograph," Harry says, and he tries to keep his voice calm, but he's just as taken aback as Zabini is. "We don't know what it means."

"It fucking means my grandfather was _here,_ " Zabini says hotly. "It means he's known who Jake was this whole fucking time. It means he's been _lying_ to me--to Jake--to _all_ of us, guv. So don't tell me it's just a bloody photograph. You know that's complete rubbish as well as I do."

He looks away, breathing hard, and Harry has no idea what to say. He rubs his hand over the nape of his neck, wishes Draco were here, or Parkinson at least. They'd know how to calm Zabini, how to keep his panic at bay. 

"We'll make a copy," Harry says. "Give it a proper copper going over, the lot of us, yeah? Jake too--"

But Zabini's already pushing past Harry, towards the front of the building. "Whatever you want to do, guv. I don't care. I just need…" He shakes his head. "I need to breathe. I can't fucking breathe in this goddamned place--"

And then Zabini's headed for the door before Harry can stop him. Harry swears beneath his breath; the bells on the door clang as it slams shut behind Zabini. Harry can hear Rachel's voice calling after him, the door rattling as she steps out onto the porch. He thinks about following Zabini, but he knows Zabini needs his space. Harry'll ring him in a few minutes. Make certain he's all right. Maybe ring up Jake as well, tell him he needs to talk to his boyfriend. Or whatever Jake and Zabini are calling themselves right now.

MIss Ida turns the corner, her brow wrinkled, her bag hooked over her arm, just back from lunch. "Everything okay, honey?" she asks, and all Harry can do is nod. 

"It's fine," he says, and he hopes it will be. Eventually. Miss Ida gives him a long look, as if she knows he's lying to her, but she walks back up to the front desk again, and Harry looks down at Léonie Fontenot's scrapbook. 

"What else are you hiding?" Harry murmurs, and he touches the leather spine, dragging his fingers down across it. It thrums at his touch, and Harry stills, his fingertips resting lightly against the ridges. Slowly, cautiously, he smoothes his thumb along the back of the spine, and he's not certain he's doing it of his own volition. It's almost as if there's another hand over his, guiding him with a featherlight touch. 

Harry wants to jerk his hand away. He doesn't. 

Instead he gives in, closes his eyes, lets himself feel the bumps in the leather until he comes to one that he knows, somehow, isn't right. He presses his thumbnail in, finds the flap, lifts it up. He can feel the wards against his skin, sparking lightly, but Harry doesn't stop. He can't. One small wiggle, a slight push, and then the leather splits beneath his fingers, the spine opening up to let him push into it, touch the scroll that's hidden there. 

Harry pulls it out. The spine of the scrapbook weaves itself together again, stitching itself back up until it's perfect again, worn just the way it had been by decades of use. 

The scroll, on the other hand, is older. Much, much older. 

It crackles when Harry unrolls it across the desk, glancing quickly towards the front office to make sure Miss Ida's not watching him. He hears her say something as Rachel comes back in from the porch alone, catches a glimpse of her shoulder as she leans against the counter. 

Harry looks down at the parchment spread in front of him, his gaze skimming the words as they rise and fall, the ink sinking back into the paper almost before he can read the scrawls, the letters gleaming and glittering with magic. 

"Fucking hell," Harry murmurs as he watches them swirl in front of him, twisting and turning in on themselves until they form a familiar sigil. "The Hallows."

He touches a fingertip to the centre stroke, and he gasps as the ink twists up, over his skin, the thick black strokes sliding over his hands, around his forearm. Harry tries to speak, tries to scream as the letters burn into him, hot and sharp, and then his fingers are scrabbling at the parchment, crumpling it between them as he falls to the floor. 

A thick darkness pulls him down deeper, rippling around him, dragging Harry into a smothering silence.

***

Blaise walks down West Tenth Street as fast as he can, trying to put some distance between himself and the bloody historical society. It'd been bad enough that Rachel had tried to stop him. The last thing Blaise wants is for the guv to follow him out, looking all sympathetic and worried the way he had been in there. And Blaise doesn't want to think about any of that, doesn't want to feel this twist of emotion that's roiling through him. Anger, confusion, fear--all of it makes him want to stop and punch a fist through the nearest wall, except what good would that do him, other than break his knuckles, rip his tendons. Probably scar him in the process, and then he'd have to deal with his mother's horror over that as well.

The thought of Olivia Zabini brings Blaise up short. He stops, leans against the side of the Salvation Army thrift store. The brick's warm; it catches at his polo when he shifts, his gaze fixed on the green expanse of Chiasson Park across the street. He wonders if his mother knows about the connection between his grandfather and Jasper Durant. She must, he thinks. She'd been so opposed to Jake being Blaise's mate, so unhappy when he'd told her they were going to Louisiana. 

But Blaise doesn't understand why either his mother or his grandfather hid this from him, why they didn't tell him the moment they first met Jake that their families had met before. He closes his eyes, feels the hot thrum of the sun against his skin. It's a sign of how distraught he is that he doesn't even care about shading himself. What do a few future wrinkles matter at the moment? Not when his head is spinning with this discovery. 

Lies, he thinks. Lies upon lies upon lies. It's all his mother has ever fed him about who he is, where he's from. If it hadn't been for Gawain Robards, Blaise never would have known about Christopher Zabini. 

And the thought of his father takes Blaise's breath away. He remembers what Robards had said, that his father had died helping his grandfather, and Blaise can't stand here any longer, can't feel this twist of agony here in the heat. It's too much. He staggers across the road to the park, somehow managing to find the swings. He sits in one, his arm wrapped around the chain, his mind circling in on itself, as he digs his shoes into the pale sand beneath him, his gaze fixed on nothing but the dark green blur of trees across from him. 

Was it here in Thibodaux that his father had died? His grandfather had known Jasper Durant, well enough to be captured laughing with him in a goddamned photograph for the Baton Rouge wizarding paper. Blaise wants to sick up, wants to scream up at the sky, to curse his family--and Jake's whilst he's at it. Instead he presses his forehead against the chain and breathes in, then out. Over and over and over again, his eyes screwed shut, until the fury starts to fade.

The sound of the traffic down Jackson Street grows muted, as do the shouts and laughter of the children playing baseball further down the park. Blaise feels a strange calmness settle over him, the cool brush of a breeze across his skin. 

He opens his eyes. 

A man's standing in front of him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His skin is pale, paler than anything Blaise has ever seen before, except when he looks just so, he's certain he's seen this man before. Certain he recognises those strangely familiar bright blue eyes, those deep wrinkles that crease them when the old man smiles. 

"Constable Zabini," he says, and Blaise knows then who he is. 

"Jean-Marie Prudhomme Rosier," Blaise manages to get out, and Rosier's smile widens. He steps closer, and it feels as if the world folds in on itself, wrinkling together, the sounds from the park and the street fading into silence. 

"Some people call me that," Rosier says. "I rather liked being John Pridmore, though." He studies Blaise, and if Blaise wanted to move, he couldn't, but he's not certain how he knows that. There's a whiff of decay as Rosier circles around Blaise, sits on the swings beside him, a bit gingerly in his black suit and white shirt, open at the throat. 

Blaise's heart thuds against his chest. There's a constriction,hard and tight, around his rib cage. He's frightened, more so than he's ever been in his life.

"You needn't be," Rosier says, and when Blaise looks over at him, his face is gentle. "Frightened, I mean, although I'm afraid that response isn't uncommon when people meet me."

And Blaise is having trouble breathing. He draws in a ragged gasp, and Rosier grimaces. 

"Oh," Rosier say. "Forgive me. I may have rippled things a bit too much for you. It's not often I work amongst the living, and I'm afraid it's been a while." He snaps his fingers, and the tightness around Blaise's chest eases. 

Blaise exhales. "My grandfather warned me about you. You're a contract necromancer--"

Rosier throws his head back and laughs, warm and throaty, and something about it eases Blaise. Until Rosier stops and looks over, at least. "Perhaps that's who your grandfather remembers me as. I've been many things over many years to many people." Rosier swings back and forth ever so slightly. He turns his face up towards the sunlight, his thick silver-grey hair falling back from his forehead. "The sun's lovely, isn't it? So warm." He smiles and breathes out. "Life-giving. Sometimes I quite miss it."

"Why are you here?" Blaise hates that his voice quavers. He grips the chains of the swing tightly between both hands, swallows. Squares his shoulders. Whatever's going on right now, he's determined to face it head-on. A wisp of bravery curls up his spine, and Blaise wonders if this is how Gryffindors like the guv feel every day. "The last time I saw you was in Wales, and we know you had to be the one to teach Dolohov and his lot about Soul Grass--"

"A minor issue," Rosier says, and he looks over at Blaise, his face regretful. "A necessary evil, if you will."

"There's no such thing." And Blaise pulls himself up, the chains digging into his fingers as he does so. It takes all his energy, and his heart stutters in his chest. He doesn't know what he's facing down here, doesn't know if he'll even be able to walk away. But he's a bloody Auror for Circe's sake, and he's not going to go down like a sodding coward. He'll die on his own two feet if he has to, he thinks as he lets go of one chain, then the other, swaying ever so slightly in the press of magic around him. But he's standing, facing down Rosier, and that's all that matters, even if he can't reach his wand, even if his hand feels frozen in place. He pushes against the magic, wiggles his fingers towards the waistband of his jeans. They barely move, but it's something.

Rosier looks delighted. "Oh, well done," he says, and he's practically beaming at Blaise. "I knew you lot were strong, but you're even more than I'd hoped for." 

Blaise just stares at him. "Are you bloody mad?"

"Perhaps a bit." Rosier stands as well, and when he does, the park disappears, a heavy, almost oppressive darkness falling around both of them. The heat of the day seeps away, and Blaise is cold, oh so bloody cold. He can barely stand it, and he wraps his arms around himself, his teeth chattering. He almost thinks he can hear the guv shouting, calling his name, but that's madness. He knows that. It's just his mind playing tricks on him. 

"I don't understand." Blaise can only just get the words out. His hands feel like ice; he curls his fingers in on themselves, trying to warm them beneath his armpits. "What are you?" He looks at Rosier, lit up as if from within. His skin's almost translucent here, and Blaise is horrified to see something moving beneath it, like worms twisting along Rosier's throat.

"Who might rather be a better question, my dear lad. Perhaps I might show you? It could make our conversation more understandable, and, really, you're one of the few who might comprehend what I have to say." Rosier moves closer, and the stench grows stronger. Like leaves in late autumn, wet and decaying, musty, moldy, bodies disappearing, rats and mice and insects devouring, skin disintegrating, falling apart, bones rattling about in a satin-lined coffin, a skull staring blankly from two dark eye sockets.

"Death," Blaise breathes out, and he understands now. He knows who Rosier is. What he is. Blaise raises his head, looks Rosier in the face. "You're Death."

"I am." Rosier smiles, his long fingers reaching out to brush against Blaise's cheek, so cold, so awful, but Blaise doesn't pull away, doesn't turn his face. Rosier studies him. "Brave," he murmurs. "Like your father, I'd say, but with some of the more macabre talents of your mother's family, even if you don't see them for what they are." He tilts his head, and Blaise thinks he sees the hint of a skull behind that wrinkled skin. "I think you'll do, Mr Zabini. Quite nicely." His thumb strokes along Blaise's jaw; Blaise feels the scrape of bone against bone.

If this is how it's going to be, Blaise thinks, so be it. He lifts his chin, pulling it away from Rosier's grasp. His only thought is of Jake, and a rush of love wells up in him, hot and full, spilling through his whole body.

_I love you, Jake Durant._ He pushes the words through his mind, even though he's no idea if Jake can hear him. He needs to say this, if only to himself. _I love you. I always will. Wherever I am. I promise. I love you. My mate. Mine. Always mine._

Blaise Zabini looks Death in the eyes. No regrets. No fear. No pleading.

And he survives.

Rosier's hand falls to his side, and the darkness slips away. The sounds of the park return, the world around them unwrinkling, unfolding, the warmth of the sun beating down against Blaise's shoulders. "Oh, yes. You'll do. Quite, quite nicely," Rosier repeats again, his voice soft. 

Blaise's knees buckle with relief. He grabs the chain on the swing to keep from falling as Rosier steps away. 

"We have things to talk about, Constable," Rosier says. "Things I require your assistance with." He looks back over his shoulder at Blaise, one bushy grey eyebrow raised. "Come walk with me."

And, against his better judgment, Blaise does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The last chapter of Dare to Think should be appearing here on or around March 25. (Can you believe it? I can't.) After it posts, I'll be taking a few weeks off to start working on the final book of the Special Branch arc. I am so excited for it--there are plans afoot, my friends. SO MANY OF THEM.
> 
> Also, for those of you who've asked, my kinkfest fic is up on Ao3 here: [When You Kiss Me(Such a Lovely Way to Burn)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804761). It's NC-17 Drarry with a strong drag culture thread and a kink featured of red lipstick (Ruby Woo to be precise). I'm also around on Tumblr and LJ.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blaise makes a deal, Harry speaks with a surprising source, and the team explore new leads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. Dare To Think is finally finished and the Tales from the Special Branch series has officially reached over 1 million words!!! ONE MORE BOOK TO GO--LET'S SEE IF WE CAN REACH 1.5 MILLION, LOL. 
> 
> Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this final chapter--the Noe/Femme household has gone through several difficult and seismic real life shifts in recent weeks and, though life got a bit complicated, we miraculously landed on a better course! Still, this chapter took a lot to finish, and it's incredibly thrilling to finally put it up. Sassy_cissa deserves all of the love in the world for betaing this on a long, difficult workday and for never being too tired to get excited! Sorry you all had to wait for this one -- but now it's time for the finale of the series!
> 
> If you'd like to see the series header graphic, [hop over to my tumblr ](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com/post/172947188990/dare-to-think-complete)\- it has a set of fancasts that I've been using to visualise the Special Branch team.

Jake steps out of the battered Ford Escort, slamming the door behind him. The metallic clang echoes across the morning quiet of the grassy field, the rumble of traffic on Highway 308 faint in the distance. He squints against the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He can see his grandfather standing on the half-washed away crown of the levee, tall and stick-straight in his pressed jeans and blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His silver hair gleams in the sunlight, and he shouts something down to the other men working on the bayou bank. Jake doesn't want him to look over, doesn't want his papère to notice him. He wonders if he could just get back in the car and drive off, but that'd be the coward's way out, wouldn't it?

"All right?" Althea asks from the other side of the car, and Jake looks over at her. Althea's eyes are hidden behind large, black sunglasses, but Jake knows she's watching him carefully through the tinted lenses. They hadn't spoken much on the drive over; Jake'd been too busy tapping his finger nervously on the steering wheel in time with the Patsy Cline cassette his cousin had left in the tape player, while Althea stared out the side window. To be honest, Jake's glad Harry sent her with him. He's not certain he could handle Blaise's snippiness in the car, even if Jake knows he's damn well at fault for that, and he'd rather not face down either of the other Slytherins at the moment. 

He runs a hand through his hair, feeling the heat of the sun on his forearms already, and it hasn't even broken nine o'clock yet. Really, Jake thinks, he ought to remember how goddamn hot it gets down here the next time he complains about sweating through a Brooklyn summer. It's practically frigid up there in comparison. 

"Durant," Althea says, and Jake drops his hand down, rocking forward a little on the balls of his feet. She pushes her sunglasses up over her forehead, a furrow deepening between her thick, brown brows. "We don't have to do this."

God, Jake wishes that were true. He gives her faint smile, one that he knows doesn't reach his eyes, so he looks away, over towards the gleaming curve of the bayou and the bare-chested men already at work. "If there's information out there with my family, I need to know it, don't I?" He's not certain he wants to; his memories of his Uncle Luc are of a gruff, grim man who only smiled at Jake's mamère and his favourite daughter, Ophélie, who could do no wrong, no matter how much a bitch she was being. His mama had hated that particular cousin with a fiery passion, much to her own mother's dismay. Mamère'd evidently thought Ophélie walked on goddamn water to hear his mama talk about it all.

And that brings to mind the flash of his grandmother he'd thought--like a damn fool--he'd seen in his papère's house yesterday. It feels a lifetime ago, even if it's really only been twenty hours or so. Maybe even less, Jake thinks, and he marvels at the way time moves in Thibodaux, fast and slow, almost as if it's turning in on itself at moments, then stretching out again, each breath longer than it should be. Sometimes Jake thinks it the magic of the place, that deep, steady thrum that comes from the old river path, or so his mama had always told him. The Mississippi had once run through here, the rushing waters laying down their own power before the river was diverted by men. His mama'd sworn the ghost of the river was what made Thibodaux special, and maybe it was. It had been in Élodie Durant's eyes, at least. Jake had never bought into that idea, not really. His magical theory prof in Auror training, a puffed-up Ilvermorny asshole who thought he was better than the recruits he'd been brought down to Atlanta to teach, had laughed at Jake when he'd asked about the possibility, but standing here now in a weedy, overgrown field, Jake thinks maybe his mama might've had it a bit right, Sergeant Cartwright be damned. Thibodaux grows on you, buries itself deep in your soul, and as much as Jake has tried to run from it for the past twenty years, it's still a part of him. 

It always will be.

Jake wipes his palms on the hem of his t-shirt. "Let's go get this fucking over with," he manages to say, and Althea gives him a small smile as she drops her sunglasses back down to the bridge of her nose. She follows him across the field, and God, Jake hopes his family's remembered to cast a charm to keep the snakes away. He's fairly certain his boots wouldn't resist a pissed-off rattler. He damn well knows Althea's sneakers won't.

Étienne glances over at them when they reach the base of the levee, his arms folded across his chest. "You're late," he says, and Jake bites back the sharp retort that wants to fly out. Thirty-two goddamn years old and he still feels like a sullen teenager in front of Étienne Fontenot. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at his grandfather. 

"Uncle Luc here?" Jake asks. 

"Working on the levee." Étienne eyes Althea before he looks back over at Jake. "Heard you was veiller with Davina last night."

Jake wants to roll his eyes. The thing he'd hated most about Thibodaux was everyone knowing every move he made, and then reporting it back to his papère, the fuckers. "She makes the best jambalaya in town," he says. Although he does wonder how much of his grandfather's curiosity is his lingering hope that Jake might somehow find enough of a scrap of heterosexuality in him to settle down with a decent girl like Davina. To be honest, he half-thinks his mama and Nathalie would have been thrilled if he had.

"That she do," Étienne admits, and his face splits into a wide, sly smile. "Too bad you never nailed that one down." And that, Jake thinks, answers that question. His grandfather always had liked Davina. Étienne turns to Althea. "You another one of Jake's London folk?" He looks her up and down, his smile fading. Jake mirrors his scowl. The bastard probably smells the queer on her too.

"Althea Whitaker." Althea holds her hand out, and Étienne hesitates for a moment before bending down from his perch atop the levee to take it. "You must be Étienne Fontenot."

Étienne nods. "Jakey here said he was coming back with some men to work on the levee."

Jake tenses for a moment, but Althea just gives his grandfather a small, tight smile. "My wandwork's just as good as any of them," she says, and she pulls her wand from her pocket, twirling it through her fingers. "If you'll have me."

And Jake's relieved when his grandfather snorts, then waves them up to the levee crown. Jake's boots dig into the dirt as he climbs the two feet up to the hard-packed top; he catches Althea's hand when she slips on a patch of gravel, hauling her up beside him. 

The bayou stretches out in front of them, sinuous and shining in the sunlight, its waters a deep blue against the green of the fields along both banks. The lake's still a good half-mile away, but Jake knows the length of this bayou from his childhood, mostly from floating in a pirogue down it with his father and brother at either end, paddles in hand. He'd always loved those moments spent at his father's side, sometimes with Uncle Rufus along with them, Jasper pointing out the nooks and crannies of the bayou they'd explored themselves as boys, collecting the skulls and herbs their daddy'd needed for spellwork. God, Jake thinks. He'd been so damn naive back then, so blind to what the Durants were really doing. He remembers Jasper getting him to scramble up the levee to gather bits of cypress and mullein for that small leather pouch his daddy always wore on his belt. Jake wonders what spells Jasper and Rufus were casting, what hexes and curses they were brewing up for the proper townfolk of Thibodaux. 

There'd been a Mason jar on dirt on their front porch, thick and loamy and dark, with rat and mouse skulls hanging from knotted twine around the wide lip. Jake had loved sticking his fingers in the dirt, rooting around until he found the long iron nails his daddy had buried in there. He'd roll them around between his fingers, feeling the spark of magic against his skin, and then his mama would come out and yell at him, tell him to bury those nails before his daddy found him and tanned his hide for messing with his graveyard dirt. Jake's fairly certain no one else he knows grew up with necromantic spell ingredients tucked in among pots of heir mama's favourite begonias.

Maybe Malfoy, he thinks. But Jake suspects Malfoy's family splurged a bit more on their Dark Arts.

"It's nice out here," Althea says next to him, and Jake thinks that's an understatement. But maybe that's the Louisiana in him, stirring up again, reminding him that he belongs to this land, to this water. 

"Luc," Étienne calls out, and one of the four men down the levee, along the edge of the water looks up. Luc Robichau's always been a big man; Jake remembers him as almost a giant when he was little. Even now his great-uncle has shoulders that Jake envies, broad and muscled and tanned, with biceps that Jake's half-certain are as large as Jake's thighs. Luc frowns at them for a moment, then he climbs back up the side of the levee, the hem of his jeans wet with bayou water. 

"Goddamn, Jakey boy," Luc says, his voice still low and deep and rumbly the way it'd been when Jake was younger. The only thing that's really changed about Luc Robichau is his hair, Jake thinks. There's a hell of a lot less of it than there once was, and the little that's left is cropped short and is steel grey. Luc tucks his wand into the waistband of his jeans and reaches out for Jake's hand, clasping it tightly between his own. "It's been too long."

Jake manages a smile as he wriggles his fingers free. His great-uncle has quite the grasp, even at the grand old age of eighty-four. He looks past Luc, over towards the other men. His third cousin Jean-Baptiste is on the edge of the levee with his boy Marcel, and Davina's cousin Claude is with them. Claude's one of the Wright boys--men, now, Jake realises with a start. He always thinks of Thibodaux of staying put, locked in his memories of the way it'd been, and it's startling to find his friends and family have aged like he has. "Papère mentioned you needed some help with the levee," he says. "Althea and I thought we'd come out here and offer our wands."

Luc laughs, but his dark eyes are fixed on Jake's face. "Heard you might also be wanting a little talk." His gaze flicks towards Étienne and Jake wonders what his grandfather's said. "You show me some good wandwork, we'll see what answers I can give."

"Fair enough." It's not, at least in Jake's opinion. He's a goddamn Unspeakable, and he has every right to drag his great-uncle into the Baton Rouge Auror station and question him without any of this. Or he did before Tom Graves decided to fuck Jake's life up. Now, Jake doesn't have the power of MACUSA behind him. Still, he hates playing this game. 

He doesn't protest, however, when Luc waves them down the levee. Althea follows him gingerly, slowly, her sneakers sliding a bit over the gravel top. When he looks back over his shoulder at her, she frowns at him. "What exactly will we be doing?" she asks, a wisp of dark hair sticking to her sweaty temple, having escaped from the thick braid wound around her head. 

"See down there?" Jake nods at a break in the levee, where the dirt and gravel have been washed away, the white sandbags revealed like rib bones picked clean from a carcass. "We'll need to shore that back up, then build the wards again." He looks back over Althea's head at his grandfather. "Not sure I remember the spells, though."

"They'll come back to you soon enough," Étienne says. He stops on the edge of the levee crown as Jake and Althea half-slip down to the bayou bank. "I'll be up here keeping watch for the cocodrils."

And that doesn't make Jake half-flinch, eyeing the bayou water uneasily. He knows his grandfather must have put charms up already or Luc and Jake's cousins wouldn't be this close to the water. Gators move fast, faster than you'd think, and the last thing Jake wants is to have one of them gnawing on his leg for a mid-morning snack. 

"We'll be fine," Jake says to Althea, who looks as alarmed as Jake feels. She hesitates, but nods, taking her sunglasses off and tucking them into the front pocket of her shirt. The respect Jake has for her inches up a bit more. Say what you will about Althea Whitaker, the woman's not a coward. 

The work's hard and slow. Building the levee back up requires shifting dirt from both sides, packing it into the wide hole with rocks and pebbles from the bayou itself, then setting wards every six inches or so, strong ones that stretch from the bayou's edge to a good twenty feet on the field side of the levee. The sun beats down on them, harsh and bright and hot, and it's not long before Jake's t-shirt is off, tossed up on the levee beside his grandfather. Althea follows soon after, stripping her plaid shirt off to reveal a ribbed tank top in place of a bra. When Luc raises an eyebrow, she shrugs and wipes the back of her hand across her sweaty brow. 

"You want my wand or not?" she asks, and Luc just chuckles and points his own wand at her. 

"This one reminds me of Léonie," Luc says, and his smile's a bit crooked. "Just as ornery and determined." 

Jake's not certain he'd call Althea that, but she does have a certain stubbornness about her that's reminiscent of his grandmother. If you squint a certain way, at least. Still, his kin drop back a bit to let her join them again, and Althea holds her own with the men, her arms barely shaking as her spells move large scoops of dirt and stones across the slowly growing swell of the levee. She steps back only when the wards are woven together, watching alongside Jake as the other men, Étienne included, gather along the shifting edge of the hole, murmuring in French the charms that slip through the tamped down earth, twisting through the dirt and dust to hold the levee steady. 

"Why didn't these wards hold in the hurricane?" Althea asks at one point, and Étienne looks over at her with a frown. 

"Ought to have," Jake's grandfather says, and he exchanges a grim look with Luc. "Had some damn strong gris-gris in them, but the winds were stronger in the end."

Luc shakes his head. "Bad shit happened the night that bitch Katrina landed." His weathered face is streaked with sweat and dirt, the bald pate of his head gleaming beneath the sun. He squints out over the bayou, and Jake can feel the roil of grief that washes over not only his great-uncle but also his grandfather and his cousins. He feels a twist of shame that he wasn't here afterwards, that he hadn't stood beside his family when they needed him. 

But they hadn't always done the same for him, had they? Except for Georgie, maybe, and Davina. 

Even as the thought crosses his mind, Jake knows that's not true. Not entirely, at least. His relationship with his family has always been complicated, he and Eddie stretched between two clans that never much liked each other, not really. His mama had bridged the gap as best she could, but Jake's wondering now how she'd managed, if it'd cost her more than she would have admitted. He studies his great-uncle, trying to get a glimpse of Élodie in him, but there's nothing of his mother's blue eyes and wide smile in Luc Robichau. 

"You're thinking, boy," Luc says, as the others go back to shifting the earth around them. He studies Jake, then glances over at Étienne, who's focussed on studying ripples across the bayou, his wand in one hand. "Your papère said you wanted to talk to me about family things." 

Jake's gaze flicks over to Althea, who's with Jean-Baptiste, laughing at some fool thing he's said while Claude shakes his head and Marcel does everything he can to ignore his father. Jake wonders if Jean-Baptiste has any idea Althea doesn't really swing his way. Probably not, he thinks after a moment. His cousin's always assumed he could have any woman he looked at, and to be honest, he's not often wrong. Jake sighs and runs his hand through his hair. It's damp, and the curls stick to his fingers a little. "I might."

His great-uncle grunts then walks a bit further down the levee, obviously expecting Jake to follow. He sits at the edge of the crown, his legs stretched out along the slope of the levee, thighs still muscular in his dirty jeans. Jake wonders if he'll end up like Luc when he gets older, or if his grandfather's genes will kick in. He sits beside Luc, looking over the bayou in front of them, long and narrow and glistening as it curves around a bank of trees. 

They're silent for a moment, and Jake flattens his palms against the earthen mound beneath him. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the vibrations of Lafourche Parish's magic, a steady, quiet thrum that sends shivers across his skin. He'd been used to it as a kid, he thinks; he'd never noticed it then, or if he had, he'd never really thought about what it was, even when his mama talked about it. It'd just been part of him. Now that he's back, he realises the absence of it in his life, and he understands a little better what keeps drawing Eddie back here. 

Luc looks over at him. "Étienne says you got an itch in your ear about our kin." 

Jake isn't certain what to say. It's funny, he thinks. Put him in an interrogation room with a criminal and he'd know exactly what to ask, but sitting here with his great-uncle, he feels oddly uncertain. Out of place. He rolls a piece of gravel between his fingertips, the pitted surface rough against his skin. He sighs, then says, "The things is, I've been hearing some strange things about the Robichaus."

"Suppose you might." Luc gives him a faint smile, one that barely curves the corners of his mouth, much less reaches his eyes. "Not so popular in these parts sometimes."

"Maybe not." Jake knows that's the truth. His grandmother's family has been feared at times. Even as a boy, Jake had known that. Adults think kids never hear the whispers, see the looks, but they do, and things said at the dinner table end up being talked about on the playground more often than not. He looks over at his great-uncle. "Maybe there's reason for that."

A hawk circles overhead, wings spread wide as it dips along the current of the faint breeze that ruffles Jake's hair. Jake shivers; his mamère would have said someone walked over his grave. All Jake knows is that the back of his neck is prickling and his shoulders are tight. Aching even. 

Luc heaves a sigh, then shifts beside Jake. "Ask your questions, boy. I've got me a levee to keep warding."

And Jake's mouth is dry. He rubs a dirt-streaked thumb across the back of his hand, then takes a deep breath. Whatever he's going to find out right now, he's not certain he wants to hear it. Still. He has to know. "There's an artefact," he says finally. "The one my mama was looking after. Mamère too." He looks over at Luc. "What is it?"

His great-uncle hisses through his teeth, shakes his head. "Start with the hard one, will you, boy?" Luc falls silent, staring off over the bayou. A road cuts through the fields on the other side, a thin strip of asphalt in a swathe of green. It's empty; there aren't any houses around this part of the bayou. 

Jake waits. He knows better than to rush anyone in his family. They'll say what they need to say, when they want to say it. A small black bug crawls over the dirt beside Jake's thigh; its back is shiny and bright in the sunlight. 

"The thing is," Luc says finally, "to know what your mama and my Léonie were watching after, you got to know where we came from, Jakey." He looks over at Jake, and his weathered face is solemn. Creased. "Élodie never wanted you and Eddie mixed up in all of that. I wouldn't tell your papère this, but I half-reckon that's why she married your daddy. To get away from the Robichaus." His mouth twitches up on one side. "Like her own mama, that one was. Léonie did the same." He leans back, resting on his elbows. They press small divots in the packed earth. 

"So what were they running from then?" Jake asks, almost hesitantly. He wishes Althea were over here with him, able to push the questions Jake can't. He watches her down the levee from them, her shoulders glistening with sweat as she helps Marcel steady a scoop of earth mid-air. 

Luc squints up at the sky, watching the hawk above them. "Ever wonder why some creatures just know how to scent death?" he asks. 

"Not really." Jake thinks his great-uncle is stalling, and he doesn't know why. 

"Your brother would," Luc says, and he looks over at Jake. "But that boy has more Robichau in him than Durant." He hesitates, then adds, "Or he would if he was a Robichau."

And Jake sits up at that. "What are you implying?" he demands. "Mama--"

"Your mama was a foundling," Luc says, his voice blunt but gentle. "Léonie couldn't have babies at first. Nearly tore her and Étienne apart the first few years they were married. They tried plenty, and your mamère got pregnant once or twice, but they never lasted. Broke her heart, and they'd just about given up when Élodie showed up on their doorstep. Almost two years old and the prettiest thing you ever did see. Didn't speak a lick of English--just French, and the man that dropped her off told Léonie that this girl was the little soul that'd been looking to come to her. Two years later Léo had Eulalie. Happens sometimes that way. Folks take on a baby, then they get pregnant. Not always, but it worked that way for your mamère. Shocked the shit out her, and Étienne too. Most folk around here thought that Eula'd be the favourite one, but it didn't work that way." Luc sits up; his elbows are dusty with dirt. "When that man showed up with Élodie in tow, I told my sister she was folle to even think about taking her in, but Léo'd already lost her heart to your mama the moment she saw her." He looks over at Jake. "Wasn't hard to do with Élodie. By the time she'd been here a year, there weren't a single one of us Robichaus or Fontenots that wouldn't have laid down for her if we had to. Even when she had an odd spell or two."

Jake frowns. "You mean her fainting fits?" His mama'd been prone to those sometimes. She'd just drop for no reason at all, crumpling to the floor. People'd whispered that she had the sight; something bad always happened after Élodie'd had one. The last time Jake had seen her have one had been right before his father'd gone to Oudepoort. 

"Those and other things." Luc looks discomfited, Jake thinks. "She grew out of most of them."

But Jake's not going to leave it there. "Most of what?"

Luc doesn't answer for a long moment, then he sighs again. "Strange magic. Mostly with birds and such. Rats. Little animals she'd find dead, and then they weren't." He glances over at Jake. "Don't know why Étienne was so surprised she'd be fascinated by Jasper Durant, given the family your daddy came from. Never did mind dabbling with those sorts of things."

Jake just looks at his great-uncle. He doesn't know what to say. "Mama played with necromancy."

That makes Luc snort. "Un petit peu, if you can call it that." He clears his throat, spits to the side. "It's not unknown in our family, even if we try to forget it." He rubs the back of his neck, then eyes Jake. "We came from France, the Robichaus," he says after a long moment. "They say we were important there. Nowadays it's like someone took a gratte-à-bombe to our family tree, yeah?" His face saddens; he looks away. "Scouring us away until we're next to nothing; you young'uns going up the bayou, forgetting our ways." His gaze drifts down to where Jean-Baptiste and Marcel are standing, stomping dirt down into the crown of the levee. "Most of you at least. Pretty soon there won't be any of us left around here. Your mama always said that. Reckon she weren't half-wrong."

"She wasn't a Robichau, though." Jake doesn't know what to do with this new information. He's half-convinced that his uncle's lying to him, pulling his leg. Jake thinks he would have known something this big about his mother. Eddie would have told him, at least. 

Or maybe Eddie wouldn't have. His brother has always tried to protect Jake. The same way his mother had. His father too. He'd always been Pichouette. Little and small and insignificant. To all of them, Jake realises, and his stomach twists.

"Mais, your mama was something more," Luc says, his voice soft. "What, I don't know, but Léo promised she'd protect her, and she did, as best she could." He hesitates, then he drags his finger through the dirt, drawing a line, then a circle around that line, then a triangle encompassing both of them. "You know what that is?"

"The family crest," Jake says. He meets his great-uncle's gaze. "But the Brits know it as the Hallows symbol." 

Luc smiles again. "They're not wrong." He wipes his fingertip on his jeans. "We came here from France for a reason, Jakey. My grandfather told me, and his grandfather told him, and back it went until the first Robichau--Pierre--arrived in Louisiana, carrying a box he'd been given." He touches the circle. "This? This represents our family. There were three of them, back in France. Three families who formed a society, who tried to protect our craft from others who'd use it the wrong way. Les diables, Pierre called them."

Jake's silent. He can feel his heart thud oddly in his chest. 

His great-uncle looks out over the bayou again. "There are stories about the Hallows," he says. "I've heard them."

"Death created three of them." Jake's voice only shakes a little. "I've seen one." He thinks of the silvery cloak Harry keeps in his wardrobe, the fabric silken and soft as it slipped through his fingers the one time he'd held it. 

Luc laughs, a bit bitterly. "Death never created any of them," he says, and he leans forward, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his tanned skin. "Necromancers like your damn father created them for their own benefit." He looks over at Jake. "Death created a cup."

"A what?" Jake's confused. "A cup?" 

"Some stories call it a cauldron." Luc draws a circle around the Hallows symbol. "Others say it's the Grail." He shrugs. "But it's a goddamn cup."

Jake just looks at his great-uncle. Luc's not joking, Jake realises. "What does this cup do?"

"Creates things," Luc says. "Destroys 'em too. Life and death; they go together, live in opposition to one another." He taps the symbol etched into the dirt. "These Hallows, they exist in every culture, in some way. Or they did." He watches as the hawk dives down, quick and fast, skimming through the grass of the field across the bayou. It comes back up with a rat in its beak, its tail lashing before going limp. "Pierre told his son and his grandson that the cup created those items, that it could create anything you wanted to bridge the gap between life and death." He looks over at Jake. "The society gave it to us to keep it safe, and Pierre brought it here, where no one would find it, where the magic of the land and the river and the banks where they meet is strong. There's life here, and there's death, and for over two hundred years we've protected that cup."

And Jake knows now why Aldric Yaxley would want something like this, enough to send the MACUSA president to Oudepoort to threaten Jake's daddy. "Where is it?" he asks, his throat dry. 

Luc doesn't answer at first. He picks up a small twig from the dirt and cracks it between his fingers, letting the shards fall to the ground. "Your mama hid it," he says finally. "Léonie'd handed it down to her when she passed, and I should have stopped her then. Should have kept it myself, but the goddamn thing gave me the frissons." He sighs, shakes his head. "So your mama had it, and, best I know, she never told anybody where it was, not even up to the day she died." 

Jake remembers that day, remembers his mother pale and thin in the hospital bed, breathing apparatus coming out of her nostrils, her blonde hair gone from the potions and charms the Healers had used to no avail. His great-uncle had come into the room, and Aunt Eulalie had pulled him out into the hallway, given him money to go down to the cafeteria and get himself a Coke. He looks over at Luc. "Have you asked Eula?"

"Do I look a damn couillon?" Luc scowls at him. "She said she didn't know."

Maybe she doesn't, Jake thinks, but he knows his Aunt Eula enough to suspect she's not telling Luc Robichau everything she knows. 

There's a shout from the banks of the bayou, followed by a splash. Jake's on his feet, the same as Luc, already running down the slope of the levee to where Marcel's floundering in the water. 

"Cocodril," Étienne yells, and Jake can see the length of the alligator moving through the bayou, quickly. And then Claude's in the water beside Marcel, and Étienne's wand is moving through the air, faster than Jake can see as his grandfather casts the spells to keep the gator at bay. Althea and Jean-Baptiste are on the edge of the water, hauling Claude and Marcel back up, and then they're all scampering up the side of the levee as quickly as they can. 

Étienne's spells give way. 

The gator races through the water, splashing up onto the shore just as Luc reaches the crest of the levee. Jake's heart is in his throat; he's forgotten how quickly the creatures can move. He watches in horror as the heavy tail slaps through the water, sending a silvery spray through the air, its mouth widening. Jake remembers being a young boy, watching as his father and his Uncle Rufus subdued an alligator once, their Incarcerous spells shimmering against its thick, leathery skin. He'd cried, his face pressed against his mother's hip, terrified of the alligator, certain that one snap of its jaws would end his father's life. Jake feels like that child again, unable to move, unable to do anything other than shout for Althea to get her damn ass out of the way.

And then Luc is there, facing down the gator, his wand drawn. "Back," he shouts, and Jake's grandfather is beside him, his voice rising above the splash of the gator's thrashing, the protective charms Jake had learned at an early age rising up between them and those powerful jaws. The gator slides back into the water, half-rolling to get away; Jake knows some of those spells feel like spikes against the gator's underbelly. 

Jake reaches Althea, who's standing next to Marcel, her breath coming in soft, quick gasps, her jeans wet to her hips. "You okay?" he asks, and she nods, strands of her hair sliding loose from her braid and sticking to her sweaty cheeks. 

"Didn't expect that," she says. Her hand's on Marcel's shoulder; Jake's little cousin looks a bit grey around the edges. 

"Happens sometimes," Claude says from her other side. He shades his eyes with one brown hand, looks out over the bayou. "It's why we keep someone like Étienne on watch." He claps Marcel between the shoulder blades, his grin wide and only a little bit mocking. "Just need to make sure this one stays on his feet again, non?"

Marcel shrugs, but Jake knows the experience has shaken him a bit. 

"Stay away from the goddamn water," Luc says as he climbs back up the side of the levee, Étienne on his heels. He scowls at Marcel. "You know better than that." When Marcel nods, Luc's shoulders relax a little. He glances down the levee; there's still a good ten or fifteen feet left to repair. "Back to it then." 

Jake lingers behind the others. 

"All right, Durant?" Althea asks, looking back over her shoulder, and Jake shrugs. He's not certain he is. Not certain he wants to be. 

"I'm fine," Jake manages to say after a moment. It's enough, it seems. Althea eyes him for a long moment, and then she nods, turns back away. 

Jake looks out over the bayou, at the still, now silent water glistening beneath the bright sun. It's a good reminder, he thinks. Danger'd been a part of his life here in Thibodaux, always lurking beneath the surface. This is the last place he wants to let down his guard. 

Especially around his family. 

He wipes the palms of his hands against his jeans and exhales, following the others back down the levee.

***

Harry's head hurts.

The pain's a steady, unyielding throb that pulls him unwillingly into consciousness, his eyes fluttering open. 

It's still dark. 

For a moment Harry panics, certain that something's gone wrong with his brain, or maybe blinded him even, and then his eyes adjust ever so slightly to the gloom around him. He can make out shelves of some sort along the wall, and for a moment, he wonders wildly if Miss Ida's conked him over the head and thrown him into a closet in the back of the historical society. It smells musty enough, he thinks, with a terrible sour-sweetness to the air. Harry tries not to breathe too deeply. 

He sits up, his hands pressing into the floor. It's cold. Stone, Harry realises, not dusty wooden planks, and he stills, his heart thudding against his chest. He blinks, letting his eyesight clear a bit more, then he turns his head, slowly.

The shelves beside him aren't shelves. They're niches, carved into more stone, one on top of each other, stretched out a good twenty, thirty feet to where a set of steps curve down to the side. With a soft grunt that echoes through the room, Harry pushes himself up, his hand going for his wand. He casts a Lumos; it glows from his wand, a bright blue-white light that illuminates the room around him. 

He's in a mausoleum. 

Coffins fill a good amount of the niches; names have been engraved on the stone lip beneath them. _Pélagie Robichau. Amédé Robichau. Cyprien. Véronie. Rémy. Guy. Béatrice._ On and on and on, almost all of them with a Robichau somewhere in their name. 

"Fuck," Harry says, and he turns, looking for a way out. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket, tries to call Draco. There's no reception. And why would there be, Harry thinks in disgust. He shoves the mobile back in his trousers. He's in a fucking mausoleum, Christ only knows where, and there's probably a good six to eight inches of solid stone between him and the graveyard outside. He tries to cast a Patronus to send a message to Draco; before his stag can rear its legs, it disappears into wispy fragments. Harry swears beneath his breath. He thinks of using the Portkey in his pocket; Harry pulls it out, lays it flat on his palm. It feels heavy and dull against his skin, its magic muted. Harry looks around; the mausoleum must be warded against charms. He curls his fingers around the Portkey, his heart sinking. He slips it back in his pocket next to his mobile.

There's a door at the end of the crypt; Harry tries to push it open, but it won't budge. The wards crackle across his fingers, sharp and stinging. Harry tries not to panic. "Breathe," he says out loud, his voice echoing in the silence. "You're fine, Potter. You've a whole fucking team out there. They're not going to just forget about you." 

It helps a little. The tightness in his chest eases, but Harry can't stop his wand from wavering in his hand. He grips it tighter, lets the light from his Lumos shine across the empty niches near the door. 

To be honest, Harry doesn't know how the fuck he ended up here; the last thing he remembers is being in the historical society and finding that scrap of parchment hidden in the spine of Léonie Fontenot's scrapbook. He can still feel the burn of the ink spiralling across his skin, and, almost reflexively, Harry glances down at his forearm. It's still stained with ink, just beneath his rolled-up sleeve, marked with words that Harry can barely make out, but he knows they're not English. French, maybe, with a bit of Latin mixed in as well, and they're small, almost blending together into a mark across his skin, a symbol he's known for years now. 

The Hallows. 

Harry touches the ink. It moves beneath his fingertip, spreading out across his skin, then springing back when Harry's finger slides away. It's warm, a faint, sore heat deep within Harry's muscles, and Harry can feel the magic throbbing there, settling into him, becoming part of his own. 

It terrifies him. 

_Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain._ Harry can almost hear Arthur Weasley's voice in his mind, and he grimaces. It was stupid of him to touch the scroll. He ought to have followed proper procedure and bagged it. Brought it back to Parkinson to study. But he hadn't, and now he's here in the middle of the bloody Robichau mausoleum, for Christ's sake, with some sort of new tattoo on his skin that Harry's fairly certain isn't going away. Not any time soon, at least. 

The ink twists again, moving beneath Harry's skin, and he watches as tendrils spread out from the edges of the triangle, words that curl out, spiral in on themselves, creating an intricate pattern that curves around Harry's forearm in a thick, black band, the edges closing in on themselves, the words locking together in a tightly wound seam that flashes brightly in the darkness, a sharp and burning flare of pain that sends Harry bending over in pain.

"Draco," Harry manages to say, and it's barely a whisper in the silence of the mausoleum. All he can think of is Draco, and he tries to focus on that, tries to see if he can forge some sort of mental link with him. It's madness, he knows, but if he thinks about his boyfriend, the pain fades, at least a little. _Draco._ Harry repeats his name over and over again in his mind, almost like a mantra, until the waves of pain fall into rhythm with it, and it's too much. 

He drops his wand with a clatter, his other hand pressed against his inked forearm. Everything goes dark again. Harry can barely breathe, can barely think; he grits his teeth and tries to ride the agony out, his eyes clenched shut, his whole body shaking. It hurts, and Harry falls to his knees, hitting the stone floor hard. He barely notices. All he can do is ride the wave of pain, feel the burn of the magic as it pushes through him. 

_Draco,_ Harry thinks. _Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco._ The pain swirls, throbs, crashes over Harry, threatening to pull him into its depth, to devour him, consume him, destroy him.

And then it's gone. 

Harry's gasping, the floor cold beneath his knees, his wand rolled next to a low stone niche. 

The darkness fades. Harry looks up, a deep chill settling over him. A woman's crouching beside him, her face luminous and pale, her blonde curls loose around her jaw, her eyes bright and blue. She's not there. Harry knows she can't be. Knows that his mind must be playing tricks on him. 

But her fingers touch his cheek, cool and light against his skin, and her voice is soft and gentle when she says, "Hello, Harry." 

Harry just looks at her, his breath catching as he understands. 

A smile curves her mouth, so familiar to Harry. He's seen it for years on her son's face. 

"I'm Élodie."

***

Draco's sat on the floor in the room he shares with Harry, his back against the bed. Papers are spread around him, notes on the case that he's spent the past hour or two sketching out, both from memory and from the files that Pansy'd tucked into her satchel before they left London.

She's across from him now, leaning against the wall, one of the thin pillows from the bed rolled up behind her back, a file jacket perched on her bent knees as she frowns down at it. The others are still out; Draco wonders if they should be as well, but Pansy'd insisted they come back here and start to piece together what they've found out. 

It isn't much, Draco thinks, and he's not certain what they're going to do with it. They still don't know what the fuck they're looking for. Draco's not sure if they ever will. 

He sighs, and Pansy looks over at hm. "What?" she asks, and her voice is sharp. She's feeling the pressure too, Draco knows. They don't have much time to figure this out, to find whatever the hell it is that Aldric Yaxley and the MACUSA government--or certain factions of it at least--are after. Not to mention his uncle, but Draco'd rather not think about Uncle Roddy at the moment. When he does, something prickles at the nape of his neck, almost as if in warning. Draco doesn't want to consider what that might mean. 

"We're never going to figure this out," Draco says, and he knows he sounds petulant. He doesn't care; he's tired and irritated, and he's been friends with Pansy long enough to not bother hiding his crankiness from her. All Draco truly wants is to say fuck it all, go the hell home to London, and leave Durant and his familial mess behind. He doesn't like being tangled up in it, doesn't like knowing this much about Harry's ex, doesn't like being surrounded by Durant's relations. He wants to be back in Grimmauld with Harry, wants to think about how they're going to bring their relationship into the public eye together, wants to plan press strategy and PR manoeuvres. 

The last thing he wants is to be sat here in sodding Thibodaux trying to uncover what Élodie Durant might have been hiding. 

Pansy doesn't answer for a moment. She chews the end of a biro, staring down at the file jacket in front of her, and then she sighs. "It would help if we had a few more clues, I suppose." She looks over at Draco. "If Aldric Yaxley's so concerned about whatever this artefact is, though, it has to be powerful."

"But why does he want it?" Draco leans his head against the side of the bed. His hair catches on the coverlet, neatly made now, and tendrils slip out of the high knot. He pushes them back out of his face, tucking them behind his ear almost without thought. "There has to be some end game, particularly if Uncle Roddy's involved."

"Not to mention your aunt," Pansy murmurs, and she closes the file jacket on her lap, setting it aside. She sits up, stretches her back. "And don't get me started on how creepy it is that your uncle's running around with a Dementor. You're certain it's Bellatrix?"

Without a doubt, Draco thinks, remembering the fear that had shot through him when the Dementor's hood had nearly brushed his cheek, the chill he'd felt when he'd seen the faint reflection of his aunt's face in its depths. It'd been Bellatrix once. Draco knows this. What he doesn't know is how his aunt, killed in the war at Molly Weasley's curse, had ended up a Dementor. He worries his lip between his teeth, his thumb tapping out a faint rhythm on the side of the file jacket. "It was Aunt Bella," Draco says finally. "Or is, I suppose. But how'd she end up in Azkaban? How'd Peter Pettigrew end up there?" 

"They had to be placed there," Pansy says. "And we know that Selwyn and his associates were creating Dementors--"

"But Pettigrew and Aunt Bella were already dead. Selwyn's lot were using guards." Draco sets the file jacket aside. He pushes himself to his feet, walks over to the low dresser, looking at himself in the mirror. He's pale, and there's a furrow between his brows that his mother would object to. Right now Draco doesn't care if it leaves a wrinkle. He turns and looks at Pansy. "How do you make a Dementor from someone who's been dead for years?"

Pansy's silent. Draco runs his hands over his face in frustration. His head hurts, and he wishes Harry were here with him. There's an odd ache inside of him, something unsettled and anxious, and Draco just wants to touch Harry, to feel him solid and warm beside him, grounding Draco in a way no one else can. 

"It makes no sense," Draco says, exhaling. He feels itchy and tense, like he's missing something right in front of his face. He rubs his forearm absently. He's grown used to the occasional twinge of the Mark now, that feeling as if he just wants to scratch it off. "Aldric Yaxley's a powerful man here in the States. What the hell does he want with my uncle?"

"Or Antonin Dolohov," Pansy says. She frowns up at Draco. "Or your father." She sets her file jacket down and draws her knees closer to her chest. Her feet are bare and pale against the wooden floor; her toenails are painted a deep crimson. "Your Mark's activated. Almost everyone involved in this has Death Eater ties. And fuck only knows what my father and Daisy are up to with Godunov." She looks over at the small scrap of mortuary stone that she'd pulled from her satchel earlier along with her files. It's sat on top of a stack of file jackets now. "But I'd say evidence points to the idea that Yaxley and your uncle are, in some way, trying to pull the old gang back together again." She grimaces. "Only this time they're not just aiming for the British Ministry."

Draco's stomach twists. "You think they want MACUSA too."

Pansy meets his gaze evenly. "Oh, love. I think they already have MACUSA."

She's not wrong, Draco knows. He closes his eyes, exhales as a twist of fear goes through him. "Father was funding this."

"Or your uncle was using him to do it." Pansy's voice is quiet. "The money points that way." When Draco opens his eyes, she's not looking at him. "My father was probably playing them all for financial gain himself." She picks up the mortuary stone and turns it between her fingers. "He did it before. I love my father, but sometimes I think he'd destroy us all to turn a profit." Her face is sad, closed off. 

Draco knows how she feels. He walks over, squats beside her. "He never has been a true believer in any of that pureblood rubbish. You know that."

The smile Pansy gives him is small, pained. "I'm not certain that makes it any better."

Maybe not, Draco thinks. Maybe it'd be better if Terry Parkinson wasn't trying to play one side against the other, wasn't trying to hedge his bets on where he should land. But in a way, Draco can't entirely blame him. Pansy might only be able to see the financial aspect of it, but Draco thinks Terry'd tried to protect his family during the war, tried to make certain that whichever side won, they'd be safe. Is still trying to do the best he can for them the only way he knows how. And really, what Terry's actions hadn't been that far off from what Draco's own mother had done in the end, privileging the safety of her son over the politics of her husband. 

Life isn't always clear-cut; to be honest, Draco's fairly certain most of it's lived fumbling around within the shadows, in those moments when one has no idea what's right or wrong. Morality is more complex than a Gryffindor might believe. Every Slytherin knows that lies can be told for good reasons, that sometimes honesty is the worst choice one can make. After all, Draco thinks, when Slytherins really want to hurt each other, they tell each other the truth. Maybe Terry Parkinson understood this. But Draco knows it won't make it easier for Pansy. It's harder to see those sorts of things when they're this close. Draco should know.

He touches her hand, his fingers curling around hers. They're thin and cold, and Pansy won't look up at him. She swallows, blinks, before saying in a thick voice, "Don't be kind, Draco. I can't bear it."

Draco lets his fingers slip away. He sits beside Pansy, settling himself against the wall, his shoulder to hers. They sit silently for a long moment, and then Draco clears his throat and says, "So they want power. I think we can assume that much at least." He looks over at her. "Yaxley already has Quahog as his puppet in MACUSA. Why would he need Uncle Roddy?"

It takes a minute before Pansy responds. "Does he have an eye on the British Ministry?"

"Maybe." Draco frowns. "But with Marchbanks raging against Death Eaters, what good would that do him? It wouldn't make sense--"

"Unless it destabilises the British government," Pansy says, and they both look at each other. Draco's mind is racing with the possibilities. Pansy shifts, turning to face him. "Turn the populace on each other, leaving a space open for a strong, conservative leader to step in…" She shrugs. "Muggle governments have fallen on less."

Draco's not so certain. "But if there's a Death Eater registration required, how the hell would Death Eaters run the government? It couldn't work--"

"Maybe not," Pansy says. She looks young sat on the floor like this, her legs crossed, a scowl tugging her mouth down at the corners. It reminds Draco of their Hogwarts days, and the intellectual arguments they'd had in the common room late at night, the embers in the hearth fading, the ripples of the lake casting shadows across the darkened floor. "But if they're just focussed on taking over MACUSA, is this our fight? Should we even be here?"

And Draco doesn't know how to answer that question. Aldric Yaxley hasn't lived in Britain for nearly thirty years now. To be honest, Seven-Four-Alpha hasn't any jurisdiction in this case. Not here. They've found Antonin Dolohov. They have him in custody. The murder that had started all of this off was solved. Whatever the hell is going on here in the States has nothing to do with any of them, except Durant, and they don't owe their careers to him. 

Yet here they are, all of them, and Draco knows deep down in his heart that they should be involved. It's one of those grey areas, he thinks, and Draco suspects that whatever's happening here in Thibodaux has implications greater than any of them understand. Still, that makes him distinctly uncomfortable in ways he's not certain he can express. At least not yet. 

A shiver goes through Draco, cold and quick, and his Mark aches. He leans back against the wall, tries to steady himself, but it doesn't work. Not really. He feels a bit wobbly, a bit off kilter, and when he closes his eyes, he thinks he hears Harry calling him. It's madness, of course, but there's something deeply unsettling about it. Draco breathes out, presses his palms against his thighs. 

"Are you all right?" Pansy asks, but she sounds a thousand miles away. There's a rush of something in Draco's ears, a static that he can't explain, and then he's cold, oh so fucking cold, and there's a musty, dead smell. He can't open his eyes, can't breathe, can't feel anything but a surging pain that shudders through him. _Draco,_ Harry's saying, over and over and over again, and Draco's trying to find him, trying to see him in the darkness, but he can't. He tries to call for Harry, but his voice catches in the back of his throat, almost as if he's being choked.

"Draco!" Pansy's shaking him, and Draco opens his eyes, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Pansy's on her knees beside him, and her face is pinched with worry. "What the bloody hell--"

"I don't know." Draco somehow manages to choke the words out. His heart is pounding; his whole body shakes. His skin crawls, and he can't get the stench of decay out of his nostrils. "Harry," he starts to say, but he stops, knowing how mad he'll sound. He looks up at Pansy. "Something's wrong." 

Pansy's just watching him, and he can't read her expression. "What?"

Draco runs his hands over his face. They're still trembling. "I don't know," he says again, and his voice rises a bit. "I heard him." He drops his hands, looks away. "Calling me."

"Right." Pansy sits back. "You know he's with Blaise." 

"I know." Draco fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his mobile. "I need to talk to him." He dials Harry's number, waits. It rings--Draco's not quite used to the difference in how the tones sound in the States--then goes to Harry's voice mail. He swears, and tries to dial again, but Pansy's hand closes over his. 

"Draco," she says gently. "You haven't eaten enough, and with the heat…' She trails off, looking at him. Her expression is worried. "I'm sure the guv's safe with Blaise, and he just can't pick up. They're off talking to people. You know they are."

Perhaps she's right, Draco thinks. He looks down at the mobile, still clenched in his fingers. He doesn't know how to explain what he's just felt, doesn't know how to put into words his panic. "If he's hurt--"

"Blaise would never leave Potter alone," Pansy says. "And if something was wrong, one of them would ring us up. You know that. Even if they couldn't, they'd send a Patronus."

And that eases Draco's mind a little. "Maybe." His stomach still twists, though, and he can't shake the feeling that something's not right. 

Pansy stands and reaches a hand out to help Draco to his feet. "The magic here is strange. You're probably just getting a wave of it, and it's making you a bit mental." She gives him a warm smile, taking the sting from her words. " Let's go downstairs and have some lunch. I promise we can try again after that."

Draco nods, and he slides his mobile back into his pocket. "Perhaps you've a point," he says. He is hungry, he realises, and the odd feeling of being trapped is fading, leaving behind the faint traces of a headache. He rubs his temple. "I hate this place," he says, more petulantly than he'd like. "Merlin only knows how Durant survived growing up here."

"He ran away." Pansy slides her arm beneath his. "There has to be a reason for that."

More than one, Draco thinks. Pansy's fingers brush his forearm, sliding over the scarred Mark, and Draco tries not to flinch. He still feels uneasy. Like his skin is too tight. Too prickly. 

"Food," Pansy says firmly. "And water. You're probably half-dehydrated."

Draco lets himself be led away. He glances back at the files spread across the floor, wondering once more exactly what it is they've managed to get tangled up in, and if any of their careers will survive it.

The door closes behind them with a soft snick.

***

Blaise never thought he'd walk side by side with Death.

The streets of Thibodaux are oddly silent as they pass through them, the sun beating down warm and bright against the bleached pavement. A dog sits up on a porch as they go by, its ears perked, and it whines softly when Rosier looks over at it, then curls in on itself, hiding behind the wrought iron railing. Blaise knows how the dog feels. He'd like to run away himself; it takes every last ounce of courage Blaise has to keep in step with Rosier.

It seems as if they walk and walk, the houses sliding by in slow minutes, a blur of colours amongst green trees. Blaise feels like he's wrapped in chill air despite the heat. Rosier looms tall and bone-thin at his shoulder. They don't speak. Blaise thinks they might be walking quickly, but, if he's honest, time's ceased to have any meaning to him. The cars pass by in a strange, syncopated rhythm; the drivers don't seem to see them.

Blaise wonders if he's going to die.

They reach the end of Jefferson Street, further out of town, where the houses are smaller and the fields are close by. Blaise can smell dust and fertilizer baking in the August heat. Thibodaux's magic is everywhere, thrumming beneath his feet with each step he takes, shuddering through the leather of his shoes as it strikes the pavement. They reach a stretch of road with larger houses. Blaise catches sight of a brick house with several boats in the front garden; he assumes this must be a relatively affluent neighbourhood. Not all of the houses are outrageously big, though. They go by several smaller wooden frame houses with dusty, burnt grass gardens and battered cars parked low in front of them.

Rosier slows at Blaise's side as they pass beneath a bright green awning hanging from the front of a low-slung grey building. Blaise reads the faded white lettering in the window. _Arleen's Hair Designs._ For a moment, he has the oddest sense that Rosier might stop in, ask for haircut, and a wild laugh wells up in Blaise's chest that he struggles to suppress. It must be the time zone lag, he thinks, or the strangeness of all that's happened this morning. Still, Blaise feels perilously close to losing his grip. He can't afford to give in, he knows this. Not here, not now. He's come too far and this--whatever Rosier is leading him to face--feels far too important.

"It's just around this corner." Rosier's voice is rasping and low, yet strangely soothing to Blaise's jangling nerves. Blaise doesn't know what they're doing, doesn't know where Rosier is taking him. He's not certain he cares, and that worries him. He wonders if this is what death feels like, a slow, easy descent into quiet calmness. He thinks of Jake, and he feels an odd disconnect, an almost letting-go that's unsettling in its own way. He wants to see Jake again, wants to touch him, wants to press himself against Jake's body, to feel the heat of him.

He's not sure he'll ever be able to. 

Blaise looks up at the street sign as they turn the corner. Maple Street, and then, with another turn, they're walking down another smaller road, this one unnamed. Blaise supposes it doesn't warrant one. It's narrow, barely paved. What asphalt remains is broken in spots, weeds growing through it. This isn't an affluent street, Blaise realises. The houses are tiny; most need repair from the hurricane. The ones that don't could use a new coat or two of paint at the minimum, maybe a bit of weeding in the garden. They don't go further than another forty paces before Rosier stops in front of a small, pale blue house behind a chain-link fence. It's in one-piece, save for a boarded up window to the left of the front door, and a few missing shingles. The paint's faded and patchy in spots; two large trees shade the house, their branches brushing the peaked rooftop. The porch is nothing but greyed wooden planks of different lengths nailed together, the concrete steps leading up to it painted a peeling robin's egg blue, too bright against the paler blue of the wooden siding. Still, the porch is swept clean, and the two aluminium chairs sat on it are tidy. 

"Why are we stopping?" Blaise's voice sounds distant and odd to his ears, as if he's forgotten how to speak. A small child is playing in the side garden, kicking a football in the low grass, his skin a deep brown, his hair thick and wiry. Blaise watches him for a moment. The ball soars through the air, striking the fence, then bouncing back. The boy doesn't seem to notice them as he runs after it, scooping it up with both hands before he drops it again, another swift kick sending it towards the house. The boy shouts in glee, races after the ball. A dog barks from beneath the porch, wriggling out from under a broken board, its golden fur matted with leaves. It runs after the boy happily.

Rosier turns, his bright eyes fixed on Blaise's face. "This is what you wanted to see, isn't it?"

Blaise doesn't understand. He looks at Rosier blankly. "Pardon?"

And Death smiles at him, a thin, sharp curve of his lips. "Come now, Constable. You've always wondered, but your mother never spoke of it, I'm certain." His smile fades, and Blaise almost thinks Rosier looks at him kindly. "It broke her heart, losing him."

"My father," Blaise says, and Rosier nods. He slides his thin, narrow hands in his pockets, looking out over the front garden. The grass is patchy in spots; Blaise can see the sandy soil beneath the places worn thin. 

"He died here," Rosier says calmly. "Or, perhaps I should more correctly say, he started the process of dying within the walls of this house." He looks at Blaise. "I can show you, if you'd like. No more lies. Only the truth." His gaze is sharp, but not malicious, Blaise thinks. "A gift from me to you."

A full body shudder goes through Blaise, starting from his toes, and it's ages before he can speak again. He takes a deep, calming breath, but he can't inhale deeply enough. His body is too rigid. "Yes," he manages to get out. "Yes, please." His heart thuds against his chest. He doesn't know that he wants this knowledge, but he realises he needs it. Everything he's thought about himself is wrong. His history's made up of lies and half-truths his mother has told him, and whilst Blaise understands her wish to protect him, he wants to know his father. In whatever small way he can.

Rosier takes Blaise by the hand, his fingers oddly heavy and cool around Blaise's, and leads him through the fence--it doesn't open as they pass through--and up the asphalt walk. They climb the painted stairs, and, as Blaise is wondering whether Rosier will ring the bell, Rosier pulls them through the dingy white door, splinters of wood and slivers of glass dragging lightly across Blaise's clothes and skin as he slides through. It's only a moment of pain, and then Blaise is standing in the front hall of the house. Like the porch, it's tidy, and the worn floors are spotless. Jackets are hung from pegs on the wall; shoes are lined up beneath them. The sitting room's small, only a battered sofa and an armchair in it and a bright green rug, but there are books stacked in the corner and a small telly beneath the window. It looks cosy, Blaise thinks, if run-down. The family who lives here is poor, and that thought makes him uncomfortable in a way he can't quite explain. 

Music comes from down the hall, loud and bright, and Blaise lets Rosier draw him deeper into the house. In the kitchen, Blaise sees a woman framed by a wide, open window, her hair hidden beneath an orange and yellow scarf knotted around her head, her brown shoulders bare in a yellow tank top. She hums along with the music, her body swaying in rhythm with it as she washes vegetables in the sink under running water. She turns, looking straight through Blaise as she walks over to the refrigerator, pulling out a small plastic bottle before she shuts the door again. "Jacinto," she yells, and her voice carries through the house, out into the garden. "Lunch!"

Blaise stands in the middle of the small house, between the sitting room and the kitchen, the hairs of his arms standing up as he realises the woman can't see him, can't hear him. Still, he senses something else beneath all of this, something darker, something powerful that he can't quite place. It frightens him, and he looks over at Rosier. "What happened here?" His voice is barely a whisper.

"Are you certain you want to see, Constable?" Rosier's tone is kind, and it throws Blaise off. He draws in a deep breath, the back of his throat aching. He doesn't know that he wants to. 

He hasn't a choice.

"Show me," Blaise says without looking at Rosier. He can't bear not knowing, and this overcomes his sense of the uncanny. With a slow exhale, he makes his decision, and the fear slips away, leaving only curiosity.

"As you wish." Rosier snaps his fingers. It echoes loud and long in the sudden silence of the hallway.

The world swirls around Blaise, like a Portkey just activated, but it must be temporal rather than physical. The trees change outside the window, and the layers of the house shift around them. Blaise almost staggers; Rosier remains still and upright, stood like a pole whilst everything else moves around him. He catches Blaise's elbow, holds him steady. 

"Breathe," Rosier says, and the house begins to settle, the furnishings changing around them, the paint on the walls growing dingier, dirtier. The sitting room is stripped bare to a wider space, no rug, and heavy brown curtains appear on the windows, as does a scarred work table along the side, stacked with parchments and cauldrons and murky, fingerprint-smeared glass jars. A battered silver goblet stands in the middle of the table, plain and tarnished, the rim dark with something Blaise thinks might be dried blood. He looks away, his stomach turning. The sofa changes, the cheery faded floral upholstery morphing into a dull brown plaid. The light changes, fades from mid-day sun to a velvety darkness outside the window, broken by the pools of golden light from the lamps in the sitting room.

Faintly, in the distance, Blaise can still hear the music from the kitchen, muffled through the layers of time. Rosier moves beside him, stepping from the hall through the arched doorway of the sitting room. "Come," Rosier says, and Blaise follows him, his steps unsteady, uneven. He draws up short when he sees the men in the room. 

Barachiel Dee was evidently born old. He looks exactly as Blaise remembers him from London, exactly as he looked in the newspaper photograph that had been tucked away in Léonie Fontenot's scrapbook. Blaise studies Barachiel, thinks perhaps this version of his grandfather is a little spryer, far less reliant on his cane as he stands in the corner, obviously agitated as he watches the other two men argue. 

One of them looks just like Jake, Blaise realises, all blond curls and blustery swagger, his chiselled chin lifted high, his mouth twisted in anger. That's Jasper Durant, Blaise thinks, and like Blaise's grandfather, he looks nearly the same as he had in the newspaper clipping. His hair is a bit longer, though, and Blaise's mind slips into proper Auror mode. An inch or two of hair growth makes Blaise certain that whatever went down here happened perhaps a few weeks after the picture Blaise had seen at the historical society.

The other man makes Blaise's breath catch. He's tall and broad-shouldered, his skin a deep, dark brown in the warm lamplight, and when he turns, his profile is as familiar to Blaise's as his own is. That angle of his nose, the set of his jaw. They're Blaise's. 

"My father," Blaise whispers, and he can't take his eyes off Christopher Zabini. When his father moves, it's with a grace that Blaise recognises as his own, that careful, precise way of shifting his weight from one foot to another, of putting himself between Jasper Durant and Barachiel Dee. Blaise wishes he could hear them, could know what his father's shouting as he looks back at Blaise's grandfather. "Why are they arguing?" Blaise asks, glancing over at Rosier. 

Death doesn't answer at first. Instead he sighs, shakes his head. "After all the years I've watched your kind, I still don't understand your passion." He folds his arms across his chest. "It's easier when I take this form, when a willing human allows me use of their body." He looks at Blaise. "This one has served me well over the years. But still, when I look at them…" He nods towards Blaise's father, Jake's father, both of them radiating fury with Barachiel Dee. "Human life is fascinating, isn't it?"

"That's not what I asked," Blaise says, and Rosier looks over at him, his eyebrow going up. Blaise frowns. "They're fighting over something--what?"

"Your grandfather's hubris, I imagine." Rosier turns away, walks further into the sitting room. Blaise hesitates, then joins him. He's a foot away from his father; he reaches out, tries to touch him. His fingers slide through Christopher's thick bicep. Rosier glances back at him. "It's only an image, Constable. An echo through time of what happened one night." He walks over to the work table. "Careful."

Blaise can almost smell his father as he steps behind him, a hint of musk and sweat and blood. He catches a glimpse of the later when his father raises his arm to hold Jasper Durant back. There's a bandage around his father's left forearm; a dark stain spreading across it. Jasper has one as well, Blaise realises. 

His grandfather is shouting something at Jasper, and Blaise thinks his father is keeping Jasper in line, keeping him from lunging at Barachiel Dee. Blaise turns his head, sees the stone in his grandfather's hands. He knows it, recognises it from the sketch in Dolohov's book, the one they'd found back in May, the stone that disappeared from evidence after Pansy catalogued it in London.

"The Resurrection Stone," Blaise says softly.

Rosier's chuckle is dry. He turns, his fingers dragging along the edge of the work table. "Almost. But not quite. Your grandfather tried, but this stone isn't quite complete enough for that." He runs a thumb along the edge of the silver cup. "He's a brilliant necromancer, but there are things still a mystery to him--a fact which he's accepted more easily in recent years, I would say." His eyes flick towards the other men. "Pay attention."

He needn't tell Blaise. To be honest, Blaise isn't certain he could tear his gaze from his father. Memories flit to the surface, of a booming laugh and strong arms lifting him, of Blaise's hands patting a smooth brown cheek, of hands settling him on wide shoulders, his mother fretting in the background. And Blaise knows, with every fibre of his being, that Christopher Zabini had loved him, that Blaise had been precious to his father, that he would have laid down everything for Blaise if he could. Something breaks deep inside of Blaise, and he studies his father's face, trying to remember every inch of it, trying to see himself in the angles of his jaw, the width of his forehead, the dark brown of his eyes. 

As Blaise watches, transfixed, Jasper twists away from his father's grasp, but Barachiel Dee is quicker. He manages to get to the side, and Jasper sprawls on the floor, furious. Barachiel reaches out, handing the stone to Blaise's father, just as Jasper pulls his wand. 

Time slows down, moving as slowly as treacle, whilst Blaise watches his father reach for the stone, his strong fingers opening to receive it from his grandfather's long, bony ones. Jasper's spell hits the stone at the moment it touches Christopher's hand. The stone glows a bright, gleaming scarlet, in what must have been a flash before fading back into a granite grey. And yet, Blaise can see it shift, see the colours change, brighten into a blinding crimson, then seep away. He wants to shout, wants to leap forward, to slap the stone from his father's hand. 

He can't. He can't speak. He can't move. He can only watch as Christopher Zabini crumples, the stone falling from his fingertips, striking the floor a moment after he does. It rolls across the weathered boards, stopping a hair's breadth from Blaise's shoe, its surface pitted and dull. 

A sickly, white shadow moves up Christopher's muscular brown arm, the skin turning grey behind it.

Barachiel drops to his knees next to him, his face drawn; Jasper Durant scrambles to his feet, his eyes wide, his mouth moving, shouting. Blaise wants to grab him, wants to slam him up against the wall, wants to pummel Jasper until he's begging, until he's limp and lifeless the way Blaise's father is, sprawled across the floor. 

And then Jasper runs, through Blaise, towards the front door, and Blaise can barely breathe from the suddenness of it, from the strange feeling of Jasper moving through his body. The door bangs against the wall, and the coolness of the night rushes over Blaise as he watches his grandfather bend over his father, casting a stasis spell on him.

Rosier's hand settles on Blaise's shoulder. "Enough," he says, and Blaise finds himself pulled to the door, Rosier almost dragging him back onto the sidewalk. Blaise manages to stumble to the corner of Maple Street before doubling over and sicking up in the grass. When he wipes his face with his hand, it's wet with tears.

"I'm sorry." Rosier says simply once Blaise has composed himself and found his handkerchief, wiping his mouth with it. His tongue tastes the bitter, sour bile. The darkness of the house has faded back into bright sunlight; Blaise can hear children's shouts from the back gardens of the other houses along the road. 

"No." Blaise thinks of the man he saw, strong, handsome, a lot like Blaise but a bit heavier set. Blaise knew he had his mother's bone structure, but now he knows where some of his strength comes from too, his smile, his dimples. Maybe even his stubbornness. "Thank you for letting me see him." He hesitates, then says, "I had a memory this summer. Of my mother and a man I think must have been my father. She was crouched over him beside the hearth, whispering a spell…" He breaks off, unable to explain the words. They form in his mind, those same ones his grandfather had used on him to heal his mind in May. 

And then Rosier's murmuring them, the Enochian settling into English deep inside Blaise's mind. _O, you angels of light, CZNS or CZONS, TOTT or TOITT, SIAS or SIGAS, FMND or FMOND, dwelling in the Eastern part of the universe…._

Blaise looks at him in surprise, and Rosier gives him a faint smile. "Is it so surprising Death would be familiar with the prayers of the angels?" He touches Blaise's shoulder, his fingers cold through the cotton of Blaise's shirt. "Your grandfather brought Christopher back to your mother. They tried to save him."

"But you took him instead." Blaise can't hide his bitterness. 

"No." Rosier steps away, his hand sliding from Blaise's shoulder. "I'm not guardian to your father's soul." 

"Then who is?" Blaise demands, and Death doesn't answer. "Are you telling me my father isn't dead?"

Rosier sighs. He looks away. "I'm not telling you your father is alive." He turns, starts walking down the street. "It's getting time for you to get back. There's business that needs doing, and a storm is coming to town."

Blaise looks up at the cloudless sky. "How do you mean?" 

"There's not really time to explain," Rosier says, and Blaise wants to press Rosier, wants to know where his father is, how Blaise can help him, wants to know if Olivia even knows what happened to her husband. He's furious and hopeful, and Blaise is certain his entire world's been set on end. He can't even begin to process the part Jake's father has played in this. He knows he shouldn't blame Jake, that Jake had nothing to do with Christopher Zabini's death, but there's still part of him that wants to lash out, that wants to blame Jake, that wants to scream at him for what his father did. 

And then Blaise stills, breathes out, remembering what Jake had told him about his father. The man Jasper Durant had been put into Oudepoort for killing had to be Christopher Zabini, and that thought nearly overwhelms Blaise. 

His life and Jake's have been intertwined since they were children. Blaise doesn't know what to think about that.

Rosier frowns at Blaise, almost as if he knows what Blaise is thinking. "I need to ask something of you, and I might be able to give you something you want in return."

"What might that be?" Blaise's stomach is settling, and he has a strong sensation of lightness beneath the fury that's still roiling through him. It surprises him to realise that he's not afraid any longer. He's coming to terms with the oddness of standing beside Death and with the strangeness of the magic in Thibodaux. It's almost as if it's part of him now, calling him back to this town, to whatever it was that his father and grandfather were doing here.

"I could give you your father back," Rosier says, and Blaise's head jerks up. Before he can speak, Rosier holds up a hand. "Or assist you in finding him, rather. But, nothing comes for free, Constable Zabini. Should you agree, I would require you to get something for me."

"Anything." Blaise means it. He'd do anything to spend another moment with his father, to actually get to know him this time. "But I thought my father wasn't under your…" Blaise isn't certain what to call it. "Protection?"

Rosier shrugs. "He isn't. But I could help release him." He looks at Blaise. "He's drifting between life and death for now. The longer he lingers there, the less of his soul remains. When it's gone…" Rosier flicks his long fingers in the air. "Christopher Zabini will cease."

A shiver goes through Blaise. "You mean he'll die."

"I mean he'll be nothing," Rosier says. "No death. No life. No breath. No existence. It'll be as if he never was. He'll fade into oblivion, and even the faintest memory you have of him will be gone. Forever." He looks at Blaise, his face solemn. "You will truly be a man without a father at that point. Not even your mother will remember who Christopher Zabini was."

Blaise looks away, his fists clenching at his sides. "You're manipulating me, aren't you?"

"Perhaps." Rosier stops at the corner of a crossroads. The streets are both empty. "Or perhaps I'm giving you a chance to save your father."

And how can Blaise say no to that? "So what do I have to get?"

Rosier's smile is thin and sharp. "There's something that belongs to me, something hidden here in Thibodaux that I need your help to get back."

"I'll do it." Blaise doesn't hesitate this time. Whatever it is, he'll find it. Even if it means he's making a deal with Death himself. "What am I looking for?"

"A cup," Rosier says, "and the last person who had it was Élodie Durant." He twists his fingers through the air, and a silver goblet appears on his hand, almost transparent. Blaise recognises it as the one on the work table back in the house; its rim is still stained with his father's blood. "It's what your grandfather and Jasper Durant used to make the stone you saw."

Well, of course it was, Blaise thinks. Of course Jake isn't only his mate. Of course they're fate-crossed as well by this horrific magical accident. Because whatever this is between them wasn't fucking complicated enough before. 

Of course it bloody well needed to get worse. 

He pushes the frustration that rises in his chest down. "Where is it now?" 

Rosier spreads his hands wide, his fingers pale and skeletal in the bright sunlight. A white pickup goes by them, headed on Jackson Street with a large cooler for storing fish and several rods lashed tightly to the roof. "If I knew, I'd tell you. I only know Élodie wouldn't let it out of her sight while she was alive." He frowns. "She was bound to do so by the Robichau pact." The look he gives Blaise is sharp. "You find it for me. When you do, I'll know, and I'll be there. Understood?"

Blaise nods. "I need to get back to the hotel then." He thinks he knows now what they've all been looking for, what this artefact is that Aldric Yaxley is after. And to be bloody honest, Blaise would rather give this damned cup back to Death than to let it fall into Yaxley's possession. 

How he's going to explain what he saw to Jake, how he's going to tell Jake that they seem to have more of a past than they realised, Blaise has no idea. He can't think about it right now, but he knows he needs to. They have to talk about this, he and Jake. They have to discuss what happened between their fathers, if they're going to have any future together at all after this. But that will have to wait for now, Blaise thinks, maybe when it's safer. Whenever that's going to be.

"I'll help you get back." Rosier reaches out a long-fingered, bony hand, and Blaise takes it without hesitating, He's just made a bargain with Death, and it feels like one of the saner things he's done recently.

They step into the crossroads, Rosier's fingers tightening around Blaise's as he murmurs something low and melodic, a chant that Blaise feels in every cell of his body. And he knows that he's being bound, that Death is claiming this promise from him. Blaise doesn't care. Not if it gives him the chance to bring Christopher Zabini back to life. 

Darkness falls around them, shadows twisting across Blaise's feet, swirling across his fingers, and all Blaise can see is Death's face, bone white and grimacing in laughter. 

And then the shadows envelop him, pulling him deeper into their embrace, and, just as a battered blue car rolls through the crossroads, Blaise is whisked away.

***

Harry sits on the cold stone floor of the Robichau mausoleum, staring at the luminous face of Élodie Durant. "I have gone utterly mental," he says, "if I'm sat here talking to a bloody ghost."

"I prefer apparition," Élodie says, and the mischievous smile she gives Harry reminds him of Jake's. She settles on the floor beside him, her denim-clad knees almost touching his. She studies him for a long moment, then she says, "You were with my boy for a while."

"You know that?" Harry's not certain why he's surprised, given where he is. Still, he wonders if he's inhaled something, some sort of underground gas like the ones the Delphi oracles used to breathe to send them into trance states. Perhaps all of this is a hallucination, and he'll wake in a moment on the floor of the historical society with Miss Ida bent over him. His fingers skim across the ink markings on his forearm, the thick strokes still visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves. 

Élodie's gaze flicks down. "Oh," she says, and then she pushes her own sleeve up. The markings are on her arm as well, fainter, almost a pale grey against her shining skin. "They fade soon enough, but you'll always have them in one way or another." 

Harry can't look away from the words curliqued across her forearm. "What are they?"

"A contract of sorts," Élodie says. "A promise to protect the Hallows." She pulls her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. She looks young, Harry thinks, and then he remembers she wasn't much older than him when she'd died. Ten, fifteen years, maybe. She's studying him curiously. "You don't seem surprised."

"I've learned not to be when it comes to the Hallows," Harry admits. "I've used them before." He wonders what Élodie would think if she knew one of them was hanging in his wardrobe back in Grimmauld Place. Perhaps Hermione's right and he ought to put it somewhere a bit safer. 

Élodie gives him a faint smile. "Wise boy." She's silent for a moment, then she says, "It wouldn't have bonded you, though, if you didn't have the right bloodline. You're not a Robichau or a Rosier, are you?"

Harry shakes his head. "Peverell," he says, his curiosity piqued. "I was once told that gave me a certain edge with the Hallows."

"The British ones, perhaps." Élodie leans back against one of the crypts. Harry tries to hide his flinch. He supposes if one's already dead, a healthy fear of death doesn't really matter any longer. She looks tired, worn out. "You know the story's bullshit, right?" She shakes her head; her curls bounce lightly against her cheeks. Harry can't quite get over the way she looks, like a doll almost, her eyes wide, her face heart-shaped. No wonder Jasper Durant fell for her, Harry thinks. He's seen pictures of Élodie before, when she was sick and when she wasn't, and even wizarding photography couldn't capture the vibrancy of her, he thinks. "All that crap about Death giving gifts to the Peverells?" 

"But the Hallows are real," Harry protests, and Élodie rolls her eyes. 

"Of course they are," she says. "But their origin's a bit more complicated than that set of fairy tales." She hesitates, then she says, her voice lowering, "There are things you need to know, things I can't explain in the little time we have--"

Harry frowns. "What do you mean?"

"A storm's brewing." Élodie's face tightens. She looks around the crypt, then reaches out, lays a cold hand over Harry's. "Evil's on the way, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. Can't you feel it coming?"

And Harry can, he thinks. HIs skin prickles, the hairs on his arms rising. There's something crawling through the shadows, reaching out for him with cold, dark tendrils.

He jerks away from Élodie's touch. "Don't," he says, and she looks away from him. 

They sit in silence for a long moment. Harry's heart thuds against his chest; he folds his hands together, clasping them tight. 

Élodie sighs. When she glances at Harry, he wonders if he can trust her, wonders if she's just a figment of his imagination, if she's the result of hitting his head in a fall. 

"I'm not," she says quietly, and Harry looks over at her. She shrugs. "I'm here for a reason, same as you. The cup called you here, marked you as its next protector. And since I was its last...well." She holds her hands up. "There's a continuity to it all. The story's been passed down from generation to generation in my family." She laughs lightly; it's a soft, cheerful sound in the gloom of the mausoleum. "Both of them."

"The Fontenots and the Robichaus?" Harry asks. He's not certain he's following her; his head still aches. 

Élodie reaches out and brushes her fingertips across Harry's brow. She smells like flowers, violets, maybe, Harry thinks. It reminds him of Molly Weasley, and he wonders if he'll see her again or if he'll be trapped down here until he takes his last breath. 

"I haven't been present in this world for years," Élodie says. "Perhaps it's just I can't explain myself properly." When her hand moves away, Harry feels a bit bereft. There was something oddly comforting about her cool touch. "It's hard to remember time when you're no longer among the living. Things crumple in on themselves a bit. It's why I try to keep up with my boys' lives as best I can." Her eyes are bright as she looks at him. "Tell Jakey I approve, by the way. That new boy of his. He'll do fine." 

Harry doesn't know what to say to that, so he just nods. It seems to be enough, though. 

Élodie closes her eyes for a moment. "You have to understand," she says, her voice soft. "It started so many, many, many years ago. Long before you and long before me." Her eyes flutter open; she looks at Harry, but he's not certain she sees him. "There was a wizard in France. A terrible one, cruel and heartless, and he swore he would master Death and bring him to his knees. And he nearly did. The things he did were vicious and violent. His spells ripped souls from bodies, enslaved them to his will. He was building an army, you see. One that could march on the very stronghold of Death itself. His name was Ekrizdis." 

And Harry's breath catches at the name. "The wizard who created Dementors." 

"Among other creatures, yes." Élodie turns her head, blinks. "He was powerful, both him and his apprentice Paolo Biondo."

Harry frowns. Biondo sound familiar too. He wracks his brain trying to place it. And then it clicks, and his eyes widen. "Paolo Biondo wrote a grimoire." The same one that Lestrange and Eddie Durant used the Hand of Glory to steal from Gringotts.

"Ekrizdis wrote a grimoire," Élodie says, and she looks at Harry. "Biondo published it under his own name after his master was driven to a fortress in the North Sea."

"Azkaban," Harry says, and he feels as if he's on the precipice of putting things together. He chews on his bottom lip, lost in thought. "Why wasn't Biondo sent there as well?"

"From what I understand," Élodie says, "he disappeared shortly afterwards. No one could find him." She wrinkles her nose. "My theory is the cowardly fucker changed his name, went and hid himself somewhere the others wouldn't look."

Harry considers. "So is this artefact you're protecting something Ekrizdis made?"

That invokes an annoyed snort from Élodie. "Not fucking likely," she says, and Harry's startled by how much she sounds like both of her sons in that moment. Élodie tucks her curls behind her ears, looking rather put out. "At some point before he was exiled, Ekrizdis wrangled an invitation to dinner from Death, then stole a cup from Death's table, a clear violation of hospitality. He desecrated it with blood and Dark magic, creating the first curses that would help him split souls from bodies. It took the necromancers of the French court to defeat him before he could turn to the English to offer his help. They were at war, England and France, and Ekrizdis tried to pit one against the other. It backfired on him, and three wizarding families--two French and one English--bound him to a rock in the middle of the sea with only his creatures for company."

Harry swallows, his mouth dry. "What happened to the families?"

Élodie meets his gaze evenly. "They formed a society, sworn to protect Death's cup. _La Société de Tirésias,_ they called themselves. They hid the cup away, passing it through families, generation after generation. They intermarried, the Robichaus and the Rosiers and the Peverells until there was just one true line left, one family who knew the story. And when the revolution broke out in France, Pierre Robichau was told by the others to leave, to bring the cup here where men like Robespierre and Barère couldn't find it and use it for their own ends." 

It all sounds preposterous, Harry thinks. Hermione'd insist on citations and sources for this history, and Harry's fairly certain she wouldn't take the word of a ghost. But somehow, inexplicably, Harry believes Élodie. Or he thinks he does, at least. "And this is where your family comes into play."

"Mostly," Élodie says. She leans forward, as if she's about to share a secret. "Except I'm not a Robichau. I'm a Rosier."

Harry blinks. "Your mother--"

"I didn't know any of this when I was alive," Élodie says calmly. "I suppose I ought to have. Eula and I were so very different, and I never quite felt like I fit in with my mama and daddy. Or with Thibodaux itself, even though I loved it dearly. Still do, really." She drags her fingertips across the dusty stone floor, then she looks up at Harry. "I'm older than you might think. Or perhaps not." She grimaces. "It's all so stupidly complicated, I'm afraid. My father was a cousin to Pierre Robichau, one of the handful who still carried the Rosier name. The others had fled to England in the years before. Maybe they were smarter, more self-aware. I don't know. I was little, and I barely remembered him when I came here. He made a deal with Death after my mother died. She was guillotined." Harry's taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone, but Élodie gives him a gentle smile. "I don't remember her. I wish I did. I barely remember my father. Just that he was tall and kind. Jean-Marie Prudhomme Rosier was his name, and he was a Seer, like so many Rosiers before him." Her face softens. "He knew I wouldn't survive the Revolution if he didn't do something, so he gave Death his body to use however he wished, as long as he took me somewhere safe."

"And he brought you here," Harry says. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, but he can't. "So you grew up outside of time--"

Élodie looks away. "Death gave me more time than I would have had, and parents who loved me, and a husband and sons I would have died for." She laughs, a soft warm huff. "I suppose I did, in a way, after Jasper took the cup to use it." Her eyes close; she looks tired. "I didn't protect it. There are consequences for that. Ones I didn't understand."

Harry's silent, thoughtful. "Aldric Yaxley's after it now," he says finally. 

"And you'll have to keep him from it," Élodie says. She studies Harry. "There are reasons each one of you are here. You. Your lover. My son. The others. You're here to right a wrong, to stop an evil from rising up once more. It'll take everything you have, Harry. All your strength, all your bravery. All your sacrifices." Her eyes are sad. "I wish I could tell you it'd be easy, but it won't be. And each one of you is important to this. Each one of you have a place in what's coming. You weren't brought together by random chance." She reaches out, her fingers settling over Harry's. "Remember that. It all goes back to who you are and where you came from. Take it from me, families are tricky things, and time isn't as linear as we'd like to think." Élodie looks over her shoulder, as if she can hear something Harry can't. "Everything you need to end this, you have. You just need to see how it fits together. Trust each other. No matter how they try to pull you apart. Promise me that?"

"I'll try," Harry says, and he can see Élodie fading around the edges. "You have to tell me what to do--"

Élodie shakes her head. "I've done what I can." Her fingers slip to Harry's forearm, to the circle of ink surrounding it. "You've already been marked by Death once, Harry Potter. That makes you a strong protector. Of the cup and the ones you love. Let the words lead you."

And then she's gone, and Harry's left alone in the mausoleum, surrounded by shadows, more frightened and lost than he's ever been in his life.

He breathes out, ragged and and uncertain, and he folds his arms across his chest, trying to keep himself together. Fear twists through him at the rustle of something moving in the shadows, and he closes his eyes, thinks of blond hair and an angular jaw, of a soft smile and a warm body pressed against him. "Where are you, Draco?" he whispers. 

Only the silence answers.

***

The high ceiling fan in the Acadian's dining room spins lazily, and the subtle cooling charms are decent but no match for the August heat. Pansy plays with the condensation on her glass of water. Draco's drinking his third iced tea, but he's only finished half of a chicken sandwich. Pansy supposes it's something, but she knows he's not eating as he should. And it's not just the heat. She watches as Draco sets his glass down, pokes unenthusiastically at the chicken and the limp piece of lettuce over it. Whatever he sensed about the guv seems to have rattled him more than Pansy'd like.

Besides them, Acadian dining room is empty other than Durant and Althea. Durant is finishing off a plate of boudin and maque choux, ignoring all of them in favour of shovelling forkfuls down. His manners are atrocious, Pansy thinks, but she can't be arsed to care that much. He's tired like the rest of them are, and for that alone, Pansy's willing to overlook a lack of politesse. Her gaze drifts over to Althea, quiet next to Durant as she nurses a coffee, her nose burnt by the sun. Pansy can tell there are stories to hear from this morning, and she thinks Althea might tell her later, when they're alone in their room. If they even manage that, she thinks. None of them have forgotten the warning that MACUSA's en route--or will be soon. Whatever they're going to do has to be done soon, although Pansy's already thinking of ways out of town, and whether or not she could call in a favour with one of her father's American associates should they get stuck.

Althea's only eaten a bit of gumbo and some bread, so Pansy thinks the heat might be getting to her too, particular since she'd down half a pitcher of water when she and Durant first arrived. Both Durant and Althea look a little haunted still, but Pansy supposes that's normal in this town. She's had the feeling of something walking over her grave several times today, and it's only lunchtime. Merlin only knows how the long-term residents of Thibodaux deal with it, although Pansy supposes it's something one becomes used to eventually.

Their server comes back, a no-nonsense older woman with umber brown skin and a firm glare--she reminds Pansy of Minerva McGonagall, in a way. "Y'all want anything else?" She eyes Draco with the remnants of his sandwich, and he pushes the plate to the side. 

Pansy decides not to care right now. Let him waste away. She has enough to worry about.

Durant turns a blinding smile on the server. "Miss Ruby, I don't suppose you have any pie back in the kitchen, do you?" Pansy can't believe he has any space left to put dessert away, if she's honest. Besides, she's fairly certain Draco's going to have a complete fit if they don't finish lunch soon. He's been watching the doorway for the past twenty minutes, and she knows he's waiting for the guv and Blaise to step back in.

The server shoots Durant a dry smile. "You know full well we have pecan, coconut banana, and strawberry icebox, Jake Durant. And I know for a fact your mamère stole our strawberry recipe back before you were even a little tadpole."

How odd it must be, Pansy thinks, for Durant to be back here where so many people know his family. She can tell by the way his shoulders tense that it makes him uncomfortable. Pansy understands in her own way. She feels the same at shul when her mother's friends descend on her like a flock of fluffy-haired yentas.

In the end, they all have a slice of pie, even Draco. Althea takes the pecan a la mode, Durant settles for strawberry icebox, and Pansy and Draco share a piece of coconut banana with a foamy meringue and custardy banana filling that tastes better than the finest crême brûlée on a hot day. The mood in the room lifts a bit as silence descends again, broken only by occasional murmurs of pleasure from Durant, Althea, or even Pansy herself. 

After all, it's awfully good pie.

Draco's just finishing off the end of the flaky crust when Blaise walks into the dining room. Draco's fork clinks as it falls to the plate. He looks around Blaise for Potter, and Pansy prays the guv is close behind. She's beginning to feel a bit unsettled, if only because Blaise seems so disoriented as he takes a seat at the round table and reaches for the pitcher of water. The look on his face is difficult to describe; Pansy doesn't know if she's ever seen him with quite this expression. It's somewhere between lost in a dream and bitter resolution. Something's changed him this morning, that's all she knows. 

"Where've you been?" Pansy's voice comes out shriller than she means it to. "Draco's been worried sick." She doesn't mention her own worry. She's been trying to hide it from Draco, so as not to make him more uneasy than he already is. By the frown on Althea's face, she's not doing a very good job.

Blaise shakes himself, as if waking himself up. He looks over at Pansy, blinking a bit. "Oh. I had a bit of a walk. There were a few things I needed to think about."

"In this heat?" The expression on Durant's face is stern, and yeah, Pansy thinks he's being overprotective, but oh, she's seen how they look at each other and she knows it's part of the dance. She's seen it happen already between Draco and the guv, and Pansy wonders if she'll ever find someone who does the same for her. Tony, perhaps, but even then it's different, Pansy thinks. She's not certain she'd want Tony to try to protect her. Whenever he makes the attempt, she usually wants to deck him. Durant's frown deepens. "Blaise, you're not used to it here. You've got to be careful."

"You and Althea seem fine enough." Blaise waves a hand between them. Durant and Althea have clearly been exposed to the sun--they both have red blotches on their noses and cheeks, and Pansy thinks Althea at least ought to have known better, ought to have thought of her complexion. But Pansy knows Blaise, and she's fully aware he's also being evasive. She can practically feel his avoidance physically. Durant leans forward, his eyes on Blaise's face, a furrow forming between his brows.

"Where's Harry?" Draco demands before Durant can protest, his voice catching everyone off guard. He's watching Blaise through narrowed eyes, tension radiating off of him. "Why isn't he here yet? Did he go up to the room?"

Blaise shrugs, and he doesn't look Draco's way. "He was at the historical society. We didn't come back together."

Pansy's stomach sinks. Blaise is hiding something. She knows it, and by the way Draco stills, his palms flat on the table, he bloody well knows it as well. She shoots a nervous glance over to Draco; the pinched look on his face is never a good sign. In fact, it's usually what precedes him throwing a complete wobbly.

Like he does now.

Draco stands up, so quickly his chair tips over behind him, crashing to the floor. "Where the fuck have you been, and why isn't he with you?" 

Miss Ruby turns from her position near the bar to look at them, that glare of hers intensifying, and Pansy wants to pull Draco back down, to make him shush. Draco's almost hysterical, his voice quavering, and to be honest, Pansy's worried herself, about what or whom she's not quite sure. About everyone and everything, really, but particularly about Draco, and perhaps about the guv too now. Maybe Draco hadn't been wrong, maybe that feeling of his hadn't been the effect of the heat and the stress and too little food. She exchanges a pointed glance with Althea, who's holding herself in a more poised posture that suggests readiness to spring into action if anything further happens. Pansy sees Althea's hand hover over her wand. She sincerely hopes Althea doesn't have to use it. Draco'll never forgive any of them if she does.

Blaise holds his palms out, almost soothing, but his eyes are still distant. "Hey, old man, it's okay. He's safe with the archivist. The worst he's going to get is a paper cut. I had to leave because of something I saw." HIs voice trembles ever so slightly. Just enough for Pansy to catch it, and Durant too. 

Durant stands, walks around the table from the other side, standing closer to Blaise but still further than he clearly wants to under the watchful eyes of Miss Ruby. "Are you okay? Did something bad happen? Did someone say something?" He squats a bit, puts himself on level with Blaise. Pansy looks at Draco; his mouth is a thin, tight line.

"You left him there?" Draco says, his voice low and dangerous. "You left Harry alone because you saw something you didn't like?"

Blaise's jaw tightens. He doesn't look at Draco. "There was a newspaper clipping," he says after a moment. "Jake's father and my grandfather were in it. Back in the Eighties, it seems."

Durant's eyebrows rise. Pansy's got a hand on Draco's shoulder, but he's not looking at her. "Blaise--"

"And," Blaise says, his voice flat, "I left. It seemed necessary once I saw a photo of the two of them together."

"Fuck," Durant says, his eyes widening. "The Englishman Daddy always told us not to trust. Of course." He pauses. "You know he sent my daddy to prison." Durant stops, his face chagrined. "I mean…" He trails off, obviously at a loss for words. Pansy almost feels sorry for the poor bastard.

Blaise just looks at him. He draws in a shaky breath, almost as if he's steeling himself. "The truly ironic thing is that man your father killed?" His jaw shift, clenches. "It seems that man was my father."

There's a stunned silence at the table. Even Draco looks taken aback by that. Blaise picks up his glass of water and takes a sip. Durant's face is grey. 

"Blaise," Durant says, but a sharp look from Blaise stops him. 

"We'll talk about it later," Blaise says, and Pansy can tell he's just barely keeping himself together. His mouth tightens. "That's all I want to say about it right now." His voice wavers, but only a bit. Pansy's not certain Durant even notices.

She frowns and looks over at Blaise. "How do you know that happened?"

Blaise doesn't answer for a moment. "I just do," he says finally. Pansy has the strong sense that he's keeping something from them, but Draco's too unstable for her to concentrate on Blaise's deceptiveness right now. "I also know what we're looking for. It's a cup--"

"About yay high, silver with a smooth lip, last seen in possession of my mother." Durant finishes the sentence for him. 

Pansy looks back and forth between them. It's like they're sharing one memory, and the rhythm of their ability to complete each other's thoughts is uncanny. Even Draco is momentarily distracted. It's the answer to their riddle, except it keeps getting stranger.

"The goddamn thing creates Hallows," Durant says, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's a cup of life and death, or at least, that's what Luc told me. It was made by Death himself, and some sort of society was watching over it. The Robichaus were part of it, back in France."

"It created a stone," Blaise says. "Or at least that's what your father and my grandfather were trying to do. A Resurrection Stone, like the one we found in Prague. Something was wrong with it, and when it backfired, my father died." Pansy wants to ask him how he knows this, but she doesn't dare. Blaise's face is set, almost blank. He stares down into his water glass, twisting it between his fingers. "I don't think the stone they created made life. He--" Blaise stops, presses his lips together. "It wasn't a real Resurrection Stone, at least not as far as I know."

There's a silence at that table that's broken only when Draco grabs a glass and throws it into the fireplace. The sudden shatter makes Pansy flinch, turns all heads towards Draco. He's still standing, his whole body trembling, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Has everyone fucking lost their mind?" Draco pauses; all eyes are on him. "I mean, the damn cup is very well and good, but Harry. Is. Missing. I need to find him. _We_ need to find him." Draco's voice cracks. He grips the edge of the table, swaying slightly, and for a moment Pansy thinks he's going to go down. He swallows, two spots of colour rising on his cheeks. "I keep getting signs that he's calling for me."

Blaise blinks, and for the first time, Pansy thinks, he seems like himself. "He was with Miss Ida when I last saw him. At the historical society. She was helping him find the recent family records."

"Why the _fuck_ did you leave him?" Draco asks, his body taut, and it's been a long time since Pansy's seen him this angry at Blaise. Pansy doesn't know how to calm Draco, and to be honest, she's wondering the same thing. Something's wrong, she can feel it. Blaise is too calm. Preternaturally so.

"As I said," Blaise says, his voice far too reasonable, "I had to get some air when I found the picture of my grandfather with Jake's father here in Thibodaux." He eyes Durant for a moment before looking back at Draco. "The guv stayed in the building, and I walked out and south, down Jackson."

Durant cocks his head and gives Blaise an odd little smile. Pansy would find it almost endearing if Draco weren't so bloody stressed about Potter. Still something's passing between Blaise and Durant; even with the odd distance Blaise is projecting, they're still both wrapped up in each other in a way Pansy envies, even as it exasperates her. She wishes she had the time for such nonsense, but they're in the middle of a case and their time is almost up. Still, Blaise seems to relax some, his shoulders lowering, the tightness in his jaw slipping away.

"I'm sure he's there, and still working on the files." Blaise frowns for a moment, rubbing at his temple. “There were a bloody lot of them."

"One way to find out." Durant pulls out his mobile, punches in a number and puts the phone on speaker. He sets it in the middle of the table as it rings, sliding into the chair next to Blaise.

"Thibodaux Historical Society, Rachel speaking," the young voice on the other end of the line says. 

"Hi, Rachel." Durant shifts in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. " It's Jake Durant. Could I speak to Miss Ida for a moment?"

"Please hold." The phone is put down, and then Rachel's voice shouts for Miss Ida. It takes a moment before it's picked back up again.

"Hello." The tones of the voice on the other end are older and sweeter, the vowels more rounded. "This is Ida Legendre. Whom am I speaking to?"

Durant looks around the table. Pansy reaches out, slides her arm around Draco's hip, pulling him up against her as Durant says, "Hello, ma'am, it's Jake Durant, Jasper and Élodie's son? I'm looking for someone I hope is still in your reading room."

"My goodness, Jake Durant. I'd heard you were back." There is a pause on the other end of the line. "You're looking for young Mr Potter and his friend, yes?"

"That'd be correct." Durant meets Draco's gaze with a nod, and Draco relaxes a little, leaning against Pansy, his hand on her shoulder. 

Miss Ida clucks across the phone line. "When we came back from lunch, they were both gone. Mr Potter'd left all of his things strewn about. I've gathered everything up as best I can, but, honestly, it looks like he was carried off by a hurricane."

At that, Draco tenses, his fingers digging into Pansy's skin. She rests her hand on his, stroking across his knuckles.

Durant frowns. "Can you tell me what he was working on?"

"Why, yes." Miss Ida's voice crackles a bit. She clears her throat. "He'd been going through the Fontenot scrapbook your grandmother left us. He'd made to the end, it looks like. It was still open on the table. Would you like me to have his things ready for him to pick up later?"

"That'd be fine, thank you." Durant manages a few polite pleasantries before ringing off. He looks troubled as he glances over at Blaise. "You're certain he was still there when you left?"

Blaise just nods. Pansy's arm is clamped around Draco's wrist now, and he turns an anguished look to her. He's shaking, and his eyes are half-wild. 

"I told you." Draco's voice is hollow, rasping. "I could feel him earlier. He's somewhere that's cold, somewhere that smells of death and cobwebs. I told you he was in danger. We have to find him." He grips Pansy's hand tightly. "You have to trust me. _Please._ "

Durant's face is tight as he looks at Draco. Pansy thinks he's sending out a few feelers, testing out Draco's thoughts. She's glad in a way, even as Durant inhales sharply. He looks over at Pansy. "How long has he been like this?"

"Long enough," Pansy says. "A few hours. Maybe forty-five minutes before you and Althea came back."

Althea's eyeing Blaise, a curious, determined look on her face. "Zabini, who were you with? Who told you all of this?"

He meets her gaze. For a moment, Pansy thinks he's going to refuse to answer, but then his gaze slides back to Draco, and she can tell the moment he gives in. "A man named Rosier. He found me on the street."

"Rosier." Pansy's mouth tightens. " _Which_ Rosier?" Because, she leaves unsaid, there are a hell of a lot of Death Eaters with that particular name.

Blaise bites his lip, then sighs. He looks away. "Jean-Marie Prudhomme Rosier," he says, his voice quiet. He rubs a hand against his chin, scratching at a bit of stubble. "Otherwise known as John Pridmore."

They all look at him, silent, somewhat perplexed, until Draco says, "The necromancer. The one your grandfather warned you about. He's here in Thibodaux?"

"Yes." Blaise's shoulders are hunched. There's still something he's not telling them, Pansy thinks, and she doesn't know whether to be angry or sad. "He wants the cup."

"Well, we're bloody well not going to give it to him," Pansy snaps, and Blaise looks away. "Blaise," she says sharply, but he just twists his hands together. 

Althea's looking at him. "Is he tall? Rosier, I mean."

Blaise nods. 

"Blue eyes?" Althea's voice is crisp, almost as if she's questioning a reluctant witness. Blaise nods again. 

Pansy blinks for a moment, looking at them both, then finding Althea. She looks grim. "I wonder if that's who you saw on the balcony, Thea."

Althea hesitates. "Probably." She shudders. "But nothing about him was normal."

"Definitely the same one, then," Blaise says, a sardonic note of humour in his voice. "Because Rosier is not a normal human being."

"Really." Althea's face goes oddly pale. "Then what is he?"

Just as Blaise is going to answer, Draco jerks beside Pansy, his body tensing a moment before he slides to the floor. He stares blankly up at Pansy, almost as if he's not seeing her. "I need to find him," he whispers. "He's calling for me. He's alone…." Draco closes his eyes, breathes out. "Please help me," he says after a moment, his voice almost normal. 

Pansy feels helpless as she slides off her chair, squats beside Draco. "We have to do something," she says to the others, and she grasps Draco's hand in hers. "We have to find the guv."

Blaise looks over at Durant. "Where's your mother buried?" he asks, his voice weary. 

"Just outside of town," Durant says. "Why?"

Pansy meets Blaise's gaze. _Cold,_ Draco had said. _Musty, and decaying._ "You don't think…" 

Blaise is a bit grey around the edges. "I don't know." He leans forward, his elbows on the table. Durant and Althea are watching him, Durant's face etched with worry and Althea's with uncertainty. "I just have a feeling we have to try."

"Damn it." Pansy's heart sinks. The last thing she wants to do is go traipsing through a bloody graveyard. Particularly one in Thibodaux. Circe only knows what they'll find there. She takes a deep breath, draws up the remnants of her courage. "Only the guv could get himself fucked over like this," she murmurs. "So I suppose this means a walk among the dead?"

Blaise nods, and Pansy looks down at Draco, his face pale and drawn. 

Fuck it, she thinks. She always has liked a good ghost story, after all.

***

Draco never has liked being among the dead. As a child he'd done everything he could to avoid the graveyard at St Barnabas whenever his family attended services; he can still remember looking out the leaded diamond panes of the windows during the vicar's droning dull homilies and seeing the crumbling grey headstones just outside, grim reminders of lives once lived, now forgotten. They'd given him the chills, those moss-covered slabs with their engraved skulls and mournful lamentations of loss and grief.

He's still not used to the realisation that his father's joined that motley throng. To be honest, Draco's not certain he ever will be. 

The wizarding cemetery in Thibodaux is tucked away off a narrow, one-lane road and hidden in a dip in the ground behind a copse of trees. They drive out, all of them crowded in the small, battered car Durant's been borrowing from one of his cousins. Pansy and Althea are in the back with Blaise; Draco's taken the front seat beside Durant. It's only fifteen, maybe twenty minutes out of town, but Draco spends the entirety of the ride staring out the windshield as the low-slung houses give way to stretches of green fields, his anxiety rising, the constriction in his chest growing tighter and tighter until he can barely breathe. 

"It'll be all right," Durant says, his voice low, and Draco just gives him a look, his mouth tightening. 

"You don't know that." Draco pulls the seatbelt away from him, tries to exhale. It doesn't work, not entirely. 

Durant's silent for a moment. The aircon in the car wheezes and rumbles, a faint stream of cold air wisping from the vents. "I know Harry," Durant says eventually. "Whatever's happened, he can handle it."

"Perhaps." Draco watches the trees whip past, their green branches a blur against the greying sky. A storm's starting to come in; the clouds are getting darker, heavier, hanging lower above the treeline. And Durant doesn't know Harry that well, Draco thinks, a bit viciously. Draco's known Harry since they were eleven, for Circe's sake. If there's one thing Harry's always been brilliant at, it's doing stupid, idiotic, reckless things that are likely to end badly. Frankly, in Draco's opinion, the only reason the imbecile's even alive at this point in his life is thanks to blind, ridiculous luck.

 _If he's still alive now,_ his mind whispers, and Draco pushes the thought away. 

Pansy's hand settles on his shoulder, her scarlet fingernails bright against his white shirt. Her thumb's starting to chip, Draco thinks blankly, but there's something comforting about the weight of her fingers against his collarbone, the gentle squeeze she gives his shoulder before her hand slips away. It's grounding in its own way, and Draco knows she's worried about him. He'd be grateful if he wasn't a choked breath away from Apparating out of the car. Except he's not certain that's even possible from a moving point, and even if it were, he's no idea how to visualise the graveyard itself. 

So he tries to lean back into the seat, tries to exhale, to keep that nervous panic from bubbling up, from spilling out and sweeping him into a maelstrom of misery. 

If feels like forever before Durant slows the car, lets it roll to a stop at the side of the road. "It's just over that hill," Durant says, but Draco's already out of the car, his boots sinking into the soft, spongy grass. He doesn't wait for the others. He can't. His worry sends Draco hurrying through the trees, and he can feel that soft buzz of the Notice-Me-Not charms across his skin. 

The graveyard is old and large and well-kept and unlike any other Draco's seen. Instead of crumbling, moss-covered headstones, there are rows of large, grey-white marble houses that gleam in the muted sunlight filtering through the clouds. Draco draws up short in surprise. Just beyond the peaked roofs of the graves and the elaborate memorial sculptures is another copse of trees, thick and dark green and almost impenetrable, a foreboding thicket of verdant branches that, oddly, sends a shiver through Draco.

"Merlin," Althea says from his side, and he looks over at her. She's squinting into the sun, her hand shading her eyes, her hair limp and still sweaty, tendrils slipping from the plait circling her head. "It's like a city of the dead."

"Keeps the bodies from washing away in a flood," Durant says. He stops beside Draco, his hands in his pockets. Blaise is on his other side, and Pansy slips between Draco and Althea. 

"Bit creepy." Pansy's palm is warm against the small of Draco's back. She's carrying the bag she'd brought from the hotel over one shoulder. "Are you sure--"

Draco cuts her off before she can finish. "Yes." He knows Harry's here. He closes his eyes, tries to feel out with his mind, tries to catch even a whisper of Harry's consciousness. 

There's nothing. 

He opens his eyes. The others are watching him, all except Blaise, whose gaze is fixed on the largest of the mausoleums, one big enough to walk into upright. 

"Well?" Durant asks Draco, and Draco just shakes his head. Durant looks away, his mouth tugging down at the corners. "You know this could be wasting our time." It's a quiet statement, one Draco knows is true, but it stings nonetheless. 

"It's not." Draco's voice is curt, perhaps a bit too sharp. He thinks he sees movement in the trees across from them, and he tenses, but a thin cat slips out out from them, dashing towards one of the crypts before disappearing. It looks like the one he'd seen earlier this morning at Nathalie Fontenot's house, but that's ridiculous. Probably just another one sired by the same local tomcat. Draco tries to relax. He's too damned jumpy, he thinks. 

Blaise starts to walk off. "Over here," he says, and, exchanging glances, the others follow him. Blaise doesn't look back at them. Their shoes crunch on the crushed shell pathways through the raised crypts, raspy and loud, the only other sound a crow's caw as it sweeps down from the treeline to perch on a marble cross as they pass. It eyes Draco with a glittering black gaze, its dark feathers ruffling as it spreads its wings again. 

Draco doesn't believe in omens, but if he did, he's fairly certain this one wouldn't be good. 

They stop in front of the large mausoleum. Ionic columns line the front; the narrow door is made of iron, painted black to stand out against the white marble. The roof is peaked, the frieze beneath its eaves carved with horses and riders, the central one carrying a circular shield on which the sign of the Hallows is carved. Engraved just above the door in a classical style is the name _Robichau_. 

Blaise's face is a bit grey around the edges. "Right," he says and then he stops, looks over at Durant, almost hesitantly, Draco thinks. "Is she here?" he asks, his voice soft, and Durant nods.

"My grandfather wouldn't let her be buried with my daddy's family." Durant's face is blank, his thoughts guarded, but Draco can still feel the roil of grief just beneath the surface of his mind. Durant swallows, looks away. He takes a slow breath, then exhales. "Papère wanted her to stay with her mother too. I never understood why, especially since it meant he'd be buried away from them, over there with his branch of the Fontenots." Durant glances down the path at a smaller mausoleum, its white marble a bit greyer and dingier. He rubs the back of his neck, just above the edge of his t-shirt. The skin there's turning a bit red from the sun. Durant's fingers slip beneath the frayed cotton; he's silent for a moment before he says, "I suppose it makes more sense now. I mean, if she was protecting that goddamn cup."

No one says anything. A chill creeps over Draco's skin, gooseflesh prickling up over his arms. The crow caws again, burst off its perch with a rustle of wings that makes Draco jump, startled. Pansy laughs, sudden, high-pitched, and Draco knows it's taken her by surprise as well. It helps to know someone else is as on edge as he is.

"So what do we do?" Althea asks, her voice quiet. The light's shifting around them, the clouds drawing tighter above, heavy and grey. There's a faint rumble in the distance, brief and quick and angry, and Durant squints up at the sky. 

"It's going to rain," he says, and Draco tries not to roll his eyes at the obviousness of the statement. He knows it must be difficult for Durant, standing here outside his mother's tomb. Draco couldn't imagine what he'd be thinking should it have been Lucius's. Durant shifts from foot to foot; Blaise's hand settles on his back. 

"We need to go in." Blaise is looking at Durant, his expression almost cautious. "You can feel it, can't you?"

Durant nods, unhappily. "It seems wrong." 

"Harry could be in there." Draco can't help himself. He can feel that unsettled anxiety creeping up again, that roiling twist in his belly that he knows all too well is fueled by fear. He doesn't know what they'll find inside, but he needs to know, needs to make certain Harry isn't trapped. He tries to reach out with his mind, tries to feel Harry, but it's like pushing through treacle, thick and sticky with wards. And that's odd, Draco thinks. There are always wards on wizarding graves, ones meant to keep malicious mages and other grave robbers at bay, particularly ones who might want to use a bit of hair or bone or skin for necromantic purposes. But these wards feel different. They're stronger, heavier, almost. He reaches out, tries to push the iron latch on the mausoleum door. It doesn't move. 

And then Blaise is beside him, throwing his weight against the door. It shifts only slightly before the latch holds fast. "Fuck," Blaise says, a bit breathlessly, and he looks at Draco. "Blasting spell?"

"Don't." Durant's voice is sharp. He's frowning at the door, and then he moves forward, a bit hesitantly. "It'll only backfire with the wards. If I recall, there's a way…" He trails off, and Draco steps aside with a quick glance at Blaise. Durant drags his fingers along the edge of the door, near the frame. He bites his lip, closes his eyes, and Draco can tell he's concentrating, trying to bring a memory back up. His thumb presses against a narrow seam above the latch. "I think…" Durant exhales, and his eyes flutter open just as he pushes his thumbnail deeper into the dip in the iron. There's a loud click, then the scrape of the latch loosening. "I remember watching them open it for Mama." His voice is thick, a bit raw. "It's funny the things that stick with you at moments like that."

And Draco understands that, all too well. The smell of lilies will always remind him of his father's casket, polished wood gleaming in the sunlight, of the moment he'd scooped up a handful of thick, rich dirt and dropped it into the grave, the sweetly decaying scent of the earth sticking to his fingers. The sound of it spattering against the flowers still echoes in his ears. He reaches out, touches Durant's forearm. His skin is warm beneath Draco's palm. "It'll be all right," Draco says, the words barely more than a whisper, but Durant looks at him, unhappy and grim, then nods, a curt dip of his head. 

Durant draws in a deep breath, swallows. And just as the first fat, warm drops of rain strike the back of Draco's neck, Durant pushes the door with all of his strength, staggering forward as it creaks open in a rush of dusty, foul air that sets them all coughing as it swirls up from the depths of the mausoleum.

"Harry?" Draco calls out, stepping into the crypt. His voice echoes in the silence. The stone stairs down are shallow; four of them have him down into the narrow aisle between carved stone niches. The inside is larger than he'd expected it to be, stretching out a good twenty to thirty feet before another set of steps curves down into another level. It's all wizarding space, Draco realises, much like the Malfoy crypt at St Barnabas. Draco moves deeper into the mausoleum, casting a Lumos with his wand. He can hear the others following him, can hear Pansy's soft hiss when she stumbles on a broken bit of masonry. 

"Careful," Athea says. Her voice sounds a bit reedy, a bit thin. She's frightened too, Draco realises, and it helps him feel better about the flutter of nerves in his own stomach. 

There's a shout from down the stairs, almost unintelligible, but Draco recognises Harry's voice. He doesn't hesitate; he heads for the steps, his wand casting long shadows against the marble walls. 

"I am not looking at the dead people," Blaise whispers from behind Draco. "I am not utterly terrified about whatever it is we're going to find down there."

"Hopefully it's just Harry." Draco's fingers are clenched tight around his wand. He walks down the steps slowly, his shoulder brushing against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. Wildly, he thinks about the stories he and his friends had told in the dark during childhood sleepovers, the horror tales about ghosts who lured men to their deaths, about creatures who waited in the shadows to pounce on the unsuspecting. Vince had been brilliant at those, had told stories so convincing that Draco had stayed awake all night, jumping at every whisper and creak in the room. This is worse, Draco thinks. Even after a year of living through the horror of the Dark Lord in the Manor. 

For a moment, Draco wishes it were Durant in the lead, that someone stronger than him would go in front. But he knows it has to be him. He has to be the one to find Harry. He couldn't bear it if anyone else did. 

And then his foot hits solid ground, and he's peering into the gloom. "Harry," he says again, a bit louder this time, and he's just turned the corner when there's a flare of light that nearly blinds him. Draco staggers back, his boot coming down on Blaise's toes, and Blaise swears, catching Draco before he falls. 

"Sorry," Harry says, and he's blinking at them from behind grimy glasses. His hair's white with dust in places, and it glints and glitters in the collective light of their Lumoses. His shirt's ripped a bit at the sleeve, and Draco scans his face, trying to make certain Harry's not hurt. 

Harry gives him a faint, weary smile. "I'm fine," he says, but that doesn't stop Draco from reaching for him, from pressing his face against Harry's throat, breathing in the musty, stale scent of the dust on his skin. 

"What the _fuck_ happened to you?" Draco asks, and his words are muffled against Harry's neck. He hooks his fingertips in Harry's belt, holding Harry against him, needing to feel the warm solidity of Harry. 

"I don't know." Harry pulls back. He licks his lips, looks over at the others, then his gaze flicks towards Blaise. "Long story short, I found a scroll tucked in Léonie Fontenot's scrapbook. I touched it, and it pulled me here." He holds out his arm, pushes his sleeve up over his elbow. "Gave me some nifty tats in the process."

Draco looks down at the lines of black ink that swirl across Harry's right forearm. It takes him a moment to realise what they form. "The Hallows," he murmurs, his finger tracing across Harry's skin. The others crowd closer; Durant's breath is warm against Draco's cheek as he bends in to look. 

"This was caused by my mamère's scrapbook?" Durant glances up at Harry, a frown creasing his brow. "Because my mother had something similar on her arm. Smaller, though. More faded." He licks his bottom lip, a quick nervous dart of his tongue across his mouth. "Daddy always teased her about her misspent youth."

Harry doesn't answer for a moment, then he just nods. He turns his hand, catches Draco's fingers in his. His thumb strokes over Draco's knuckles. "It's tied to a protectorate oath," Harry says, and he's studying Durant's face carefully. "One that bound three families together."

"The Robichaus had to be one of them," Durant says. He hasn't moved; Draco feels oddly crowded, his body pressed between Harry and Durant. 

"And the Rosiers," Harry says. Blaise makes a quiet noise behind Draco, but before Draco can say anything, Harry adds, his voice quiet, "And the Peverells."

The crypt is silent, save for Pansy's soft breath as she says, "Which one are you, guv?"

Harry's mouth twitches up on one side. "Good lass." There's pride in his voice, and he looks over at her. "My family came from the Peverell line." His fingers squeeze Draco's ever so slightly. "Seems I took on the protective vow that your mother should have handed down to someone else." He doesn't say the Durant brothers, but they all know what he means. Harry sighs. "She was keeping a--"

"Cup," Durant says, and there's an edge to his voice Draco doesn't quite like. "How do you know, if you've been caught here--"

"Your mother," Harry says. 

Durant just looks at him. Draco stills, feeling the sudden wave of anger twisting through Durant. "What?" Durant's voice is low, heated. "Don't be a shit, Harry."

Harry must know he's on dangerous ground. Draco steps closer to him, pressing his body against Harry's, trying to tell him through his touch to be careful. Harry, being Harry, doesn't pay attention. "Your mother was here," he says simply. "I spoke to her--"

And then Harry's half a foot away from Draco, their hands pulled apart by the force of Durant's shove, Harry's shoulders pressed against the wall, his wand falling from his fingers. It rolls across the bumpy floor; Draco bends down to catch it without thought, coming up with his own wand in ready stance. It's only Blaise's hand on his shoulder that keeps him from casting a hex Durant's way. 

Harry's looking calmly into Durant's angry face. "I'm not lying, Jake," he says, his voice steady. 

Durant's mouth is twisted to one side. HIs fury is practically palpable in the air. 

"Jake," Blaise says, but Durant doesn't look at him. He's focussed on Harry, who doesn't flinch away. 

"Don't fuck with me," Durant says, and his face crumples in grief. "I can't--"

And Harry's hand settles on Durant's arm, gently pulling it away from his chest. "Your mother told me everything. About the cup, about the families. There are things you need to know--Eddie, too, I'd say--but we don't have time now. We have to find the cup before Yaxley does. I've been down here looking, but…" Harry's face looks pinched. "There are wards I can't get past."

Draco isn't certain Durant's going to listen, but Durant closes his eyes, takes a slow even breath, then steps away, letting Harry free. Draco hands Harry his wand back. "Which ones?" Durant asks finally, and he doesn't look at Harry. Blaise steps closer to Durant, lets his hand brush across Durant's back. 

"Over here." Harry leads them over to a small, narrow niche. There's a dark wooden casket set deep into it, and a tarnished brass plaque is screwed into the marble. _Élodie Véronique Fontenot Durant, 1949-1986._ Harry slides a finger across it; the sparks from the wards are bright in the shadows. "I think she had it buried with her," he says, and he looks over at Durant. "Would that be possible?"

"Maybe." Durant's silent for a moment, and then he sighs. "I think my grandfather would have said something if he'd known though." He chews his lip, his gaze fixed on his mother's coffin. "But Aunt Eula…" He hesitates, frowning. "She was spitting mad that my grandfather put Mama and her mother in with the Robichaus; I remember that. Eula said they ought to have been buried with the rest of our kin, not those rude assholes, but Papère said Luc had made the decision and we had to abide by it, and anything Luc Robichau said, Papère did. But I know she wanted a moment alone with Mama before we brought her over here. And they had their heads together a hell of a lot those last few days." He glances at Harry. "If Mama trusted anyone to put the cup in with her, it would have been her sister."

Harry rubs his hand over his face. There's dust on his knuckles, Draco realises. It must have come from here, from whatever Harry's been doing to get past the wards. "Did she stay after your family left? Someone would have had to put the protective charms up."

Durant shakes his head. "I don't remember." He reaches out, tries to touch the niche, but the wards spark bright again, and he pulls his hand back with a muffled curse. 

"Well, that disproves one of my theories." Harry looks disappointed. "I was hoping it'd open to someone who was family."

They all stand in front of the niche, studying it, and then Pansy draws in a sharp breath. "Hold on," she says, and she flips open the small bag she's carried from the car. She pulls out the bit of mortuary stone she's been carrying around since they arrived. "Look." Pansy pushes past Durant, and she stands up on her tiptoes to point towards a broken bit of engraving at the top of the niche. "What if this came from here? The patterns match…" She holds it up, but she can't quite match the broken edges. "A little help, please?"

Durant takes the stone from Pansy and sets it into the broken spot. It fits perfectly. 

"Press it in," Pansy says, her eyes wide, and when Durant does, there's a soft click, then a silvery shimmer as the wards fall, disappearing into nothing. 

"Fuck." Blaise's voice is barely a whisper. "How'd your sister get hold of that?"

"No idea." Pansy glances back at him. Her face is set; Draco knows she has questions for her father about his part in all of this. "But the cup must be what she and Daddy were trying to keep from Yaxley."

Durant's not saying anything. His face is pale in the light of their Lumoses, and he's looking into his mother's niche. "I can't," he says, and he takes a step back. "I can't open that…"

Harry touches Durant's shoulder. "You don't have to," he says. He looks at Draco. "We'll take care of it, yeah?" 

The last thing Draco wants is to open Élodie Durant's casket, but he knows they can't ask Durant to be part of that. It's far too cruel. That he's here with them is torture enough, Draco's certain, so he nods at Harry. "Blaise," he says. "Take Durant over to the steps."

Blaise does, leaning in to murmur something softly in Durant's ear. 

"You're going to need help," Althea says, and she slides past Pansy. "It'll take three of us to lift her out of there." She looks a bit grim, but determined.

Harry nods, and Pansy steps forward. "If you think I'm not getting in on this, you're mad." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Out of all of us, I've the most experience with dead bodies, thanks ever so."

"Right." Harry positions himself at the end of the niche. Draco takes the other side. "Let's be careful, yeah?"

Slowly, gently they all reach in, pulling the casket across the roughly hewn marble. It scrapes loudly over the stone, and for a moment Draco's hands slip against the mildewed wood of the coffin, but he regains his purchase. They lift Élodie's casket from the niche, setting it gently on the ground. Pansy crouches beside it. 

"Ready?" she asks. 

No, Draco thinks, but he keeps his tongue as Harry nods. A flick of Pansy's wand and the latches unhook with a sharp, metallic snap. She pushes the lid up. Draco wants to look away, but he can't. 

Élodie Durant looks as if she's asleep. Her face is pale and fragile, her cheekbones prominent against her skin. A pale pink satin cap hides her bald skull, and Draco almost thinks she's going to breathe, she looks so bloody alive.

"That's not normal," Pansy whispers, astounded. Her gaze darts over to Durant, but he's saying something to Blaise, obviously doing his best to ignore them. "Twenty years in an environment like this and she ought to be dry bones, maybe a bit of skin and hair and muscle left. She looks like she was buried yesterday."

"Is it the wards?" Harry squats down next to her, his elbows on his knees. His wand dips over Élodie, spreading light over her delicate face. 

Pansy shakes her head. "It shouldn't be." 

Draco glances over at Durant and Blaise. They have their backs to the rest of them; their heads are bent together. "Nothing about this is exactly normal," he points out. 

"True." Pansy loosens the satin blanket that's tucked over Élodie, pulling it down. There's a plain hammered silver goblet in her hands. It doesn't look like much; there's no decoration, and the metal's dull and dirty. Still, Draco can feel the power from where he's standing. "Fuck," Pansy murmurs. 

Harry picks the cup up before Draco can protest. There's a soft rumble; Draco would swear Élodie's chest rises, that a breath escapes her lips. And then her body crumbles in on itself, that perfect skin, those delicate bones caving in on themselves in a soft puff of dust. 

There's nothing left in the casket but the tufted and shirred satin.

"Circe's tits," Althea says, and her voice echoes in the silence of the crypt. Durant looks over, but Pansy's already closing the rounded coffin lid, so different from the one Draco's father had been buried in. She looks up at the others with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, one even Harry seems to understand, judging by his quick nod. It doesn't have to be said that none of them will mention what just happened. Not in front of Durant at least. 

Draco leans down when Durant looks away again. "What was that?" he asks softly, and Pansy bites her lip.

"It's probably a reaction to being exposed to air." Pansy doesn't look entirely convinced. "Maybe there was a stasis spell on her body, and we disturbed it by opening her casket." 

Frankly, Draco's not certain. It has to do with the cup, he thinks. Maybe Élodie's body knew it didn't have to protect it any longer. 

'Do you have it?" Durant asks. His voice echoes in the crypt, but Draco's fairly certain he detects a bit of a waver in it, one he knows Durant wouldn't want them to comment on.

Harry walks over, hands the cup over to Durant. "I think this is what we've been trying to find."

Durant's silent as Pansy and Althea help Draco lift the casket again. It's much lighter than it'd been before. They slide it back into the niche; a faint prickle of unease dances across Draco's skin. When he turns around, Durant's looking down at the cup, rolling it between his hands. "It doesn't look like much," Durant says with a sigh. 

"Sometimes the most powerful things don't." Blaise is studying the cup, a little too ferally for Draco's liking. He'd seen that same look over the years on his father's face when Lucius caught sight of an item in Borgin and Burke's that he'd wanted. Draco tells himself he must be imagining it. There's nothing Blaise would want with this artefact, other than to tuck it away somewhere Aldric Yaxley can't find it.

"What do we do now?" Althea looks over at Harry. 

Harry take a deep breath. Draco gets a whiff of anxiety from him, the faintest tendrils of Harry fighting off a need to take the cup back, to hide it away, and it worries Draco. He glances down at the ink on Harry's forearm, an odd inverse to his own twisted and mangled Mark. It's moving; what he thought were thick strokes of black he now realises are words, tiny and twisting, bits of French and Latin and something older. Runic, Draco thinks, mixed in with a bit of what he's half-certain looks like the Enochian writing in the journal they'd found back in Prague. Draco doesn't like that being on Harry's body, doesn't like what it's doing to him, how it's influencing Harry. He can feel something powerful shifting inside of Harry, just beneath the surface, something that makes Draco's breath catch in attraction--and fear. 

And then Harry exhales, and when he looks over at them again, he feels himself again to Draco. "We go back to the hotel and get our things." He stops, then says, "I should probably collect my satchel from the historical society on the way. Maybe Draco could come with me." His gaze shifts to Draco; Draco just nods, and a look of relief crosses Harry's face. He glances at Durant. "Leave the car, Jake. We can Apparate back into town; I think we all could find the Acadian, yeah?"

There are murmurs of assent from all of them. Durant's fingers are tight around the stem of the goblet. "You've got the Portkey still?"

Harry pats the pocket of his jeans. "Been carrying it with me since we arrived." He looks around the crypt. "Won't say I'm not looking forward to getting the hell out of here though, so if we could go back upstairs?"

They head for the steps, Blaise and Durant in the lead, Pansy and Althea following. Draco stops, reaches for Harry's hand, holding him back for a moment. Harry looks back at him in surprise, one foot on the first stair. 

"Don't you dare do something this stupid again," Draco says, and his chest is tight, his throat aching. "I didn't know where you were--"

"You didn't hear me calling you?" Harry reaches out, smoothes back a stray lock of Draco's hair. His fingers brush against Draco's cheek, warm and solid, and something settles deep inside of Draco at the touch. 

He breathes out, glances up at Harry. "I did. But I didn't know how to find you--" He breaks off, the remnants of his fear washing back over him. He presses his lips together, his fingers tightening around Harry's. "I don't know what I'd do without you, you enormous pillock." When he looks back at Harry, his eyes are a bit wet. "Please don't make me find out."

And then Harry's lips are against his, warm and soft, and Draco needs this touch, is desperate for it. He kisses Harry as if his life depended upon it, his free hand sliding up around Harry's shoulder, his fingers tangling in the curls at the Harry's nape. Harry's solid and steady and _here_ , and when Draco reluctantly pulls back, he whispers, "I love you."

"I love you too," Harry says, his eyes filled with a promise Draco intends to make him keep. He cups Draco's cheek. "Always."

Draco's mouth quirks up at the corners. "Always," he repeats, and he leans in and kisses Harry again, quick and hard. "Don't you dare forget that, Potter."

Harry just laughs. "Come on, you wanker." He pulls Draco up the stairs with him, their hands still entwined. Draco never wants to let go. He thinks of what it'll be like back in London, the two of them living together openly, bringing their relationship out into the public eye. Draco's terrified of that, and yet strangely exhilarated. He wants to be known as Harry Potter's partner now. He wants to shout to the whole of the wizarding world how much he loves this stubborn, infuriating, brilliant man beside him. 

They catch up to the others in the mausoleum. Pansy turns, gives Draco a pointed look. "We were about to draw wands to see who had to go rout the two you out from among the dead."

"Probably would have been me," Blaise says with a scowl Draco's way. Like Draco, he's the one casting Lumos against the gloom; the others have their wands tucked away. There's still a bit of light coming from the open doorway, though, despite the rain that's pouring down outside. "Mine's a good two inches shorter than Pansy's."

"And there are _so_ many things I could say about that." Pansy gives him a cheeky smile. "But I'm a lady, and I won't."

"I think you should," Althea says. She nudges Pansy's shoulder. "Give him a bit of his own back, yeah?"

The sense of relief they're all exuding is almost giddying, Draco thinks. None of them have realised how much stress they've been under the past two days. Durant's still looking at the cup in his hands; Draco catches the quick, almost calculated glance Blaise darts its way, and Draco frowns. He looks back at Harry. "Who's keeping the cup when we get back to London?"

All eyes go towards Harry, who shrugs. "Reckon the Department of Mysteries has a safe place it can be hidden away in. I thought we'd talk to Hermione when we get back." His hand goes to his pocket again; Draco can see the outline of the Portkey against the denim.

"Let's get going then," Durant says. He turns the cup in his hand. "I'd rather put this away sooner than later."

They make it halfway down the aisle of the crypt when a shadow crosses the door, almost blocking the light. 

A tall, wide-shouldered man in a hooded raincloak steps through, rain dripping from the waxed cotton. He pushes the hood back; Draco gets a glimpse of familiar blond curls. 

"Hello, Pichouette," Eddie Durant says, looking at his brother, his face bleak and miserable. 

"Ed." Durant's shoulders tighten. "What are you doing here?"

His brother doesn't answer for a moment, then he sighs, deep and heavy. "Please don't make this difficult, Jakey. If you do, they'll kill you, and I can't bear that." He meets Durant's gaze. "You've got to trust me, little brother."

"You never make that easy, Eddie." Durant's voice is raw. His fist is clenched around the goblet, so tightly that his knuckles are going pale. "You've gone and got yourself mixed up in something stupid--"

"And you never believe I can take care of things, do you?" Anger flares in Eddie Durant's eyes; his face twists in bitterness. "Well, I can, and I know a hell of a lot more about things than you do right now, so cut the goddamn crap and give me the fucking cup." His cloak ripples as he extends his hand; Draco catches a glimpse of Eddie's wand in his other fist.

 _Durant,_ he pushes forward mentally. _He's armed._

 _Aware of that._ Durant's voice is curt and sharp in Draco's mind. _You keep Harry back. I'm not going to let him go for Eddie._

Draco can already feel Harry tensing by his side. He keeps his hand tightly around Harry's. _Don't._ He knows by Harry's quick, furious look that Harry's heard him. _Let Durant handle this._

"You don't know what you're doing, Eddie," Durant says, his voice soft. "If you give this to them--"

"If I don't," Eddie says bluntly, "they kill you." His gaze slides past Durant to Draco, then Harry and Blaise and Pansy and Althea. "All of you." He swallows. "And they won't do it nicely, Jake. They'll make you linger because they like that sort of thing." He shudders; his cloak falls back further, the tip of his wand peeking past the stiff folds. "I've seen them do it, and I won't let it happen to you. And that Dementor of theirs is hungry. They're threatening to feed me to it--they keep giving it little bits of me from time to time." His eyes are wide, and Draco can see how frightened he is. "I can't go like that."

Durant swallows. "You can come with us."

"How many more times do I have to tell you that they'll _kill_ you?" Eddie's voice rises. "They've been watching you since you got here in Thibodaux. They know everything--they just couldn't get the damn cup themselves, Jake. They couldn't get past the wards, but they thought you might. So they've waited, and they've watched, and there is no goddamn way they're going to let you walk out of this fucking, godforsaken hellhole without handing that damn thing over. If you don't, you're dead." His gaze sweeps over all of them. "I can't have that kind of blood on my hands."

"You'll have other blood on your hands if you give it to them," Pansy says softly. "You know that, Eddie."

Eddie looks away. His face is gaunter than the last time Draco'd seen him, tied up in a hospital bed back in New York. "I'll do what I can to keep them from using it."

The mausoleum is silent. They all have wands out now, all of them except Durant. Draco knows they could make it out if they all went after Eddie. But they won't. He knows that. Durant would never forgive them for hurting his brother. 

And then Durant shakes his head. "I can't give you the cup, Eddie." His voice is soft. "If I die, I die."

The two brothers just look at each other, long and steady, and then Eddie turns his head, his shoulders slumping. There's a crack of thunder, and then the cat Draco'd seen outside slides through Eddie's legs, long and sinuous, its grey fur wet with rain. It sits, looking at them with bright blue eyes, then raises a paw, licks it slowly. Magic twists through the air around it, and then the cat's gone, replaced by a scrawny, tattooed man barely older than Draco himself.

"Les Harkaway," Blaise says, and the man gives him a tight, smirking smile. 

"In the flesh." Harkaway bows with a flourish, and Draco catches a glimpse of the still-fresh Dark Mark on his forearm. 

A flutter of wings and then the crow's there too, landing on Eddie Durant's other side, and before Draco can say anything, there's a swell of dark feathers into a black robe that rises up, unfurling around the thin, tall figure of Rodolphus Lestrange. 

"Hello, Draco." Uncle Roddy's gaze drifts towards him, almost indifferent in its coolness. "Might I introduce my son?" He gestures towards Harkaway. "You're not quite cousins by blood, but I feel it to be a close enough relation for such nuances not to matter."

Draco eyes Harkaway, taking in the fall of Harkaway's brown hair across his forehead, the half-mad glint in Harkaway's eyes that's far too like his uncle's for Draco's comfort. "Our family doesn't really acknowledge bastards," he says, with as much disdain as he can muster. "I'm sure Aunt Bella would agree."

That strikes a nerve, he realises, for both Harkaway and his uncle. Rodolphus's mouth thins, and Harkaway hisses beneath his breath, taking a step towards Draco before his father stops him with a hand to his chest. 

"Given that my beloved wife was whoring herself to the Dark Lord at the time," Rodolphus says, his voice even, "I hardly think she's one to judge." He looks at Durant, his eyes narrowing as he sees the cup in his hands. "Ah. Unspeakable Durant. I see you have something of mine."

"You mean Death's," Blaise says from beside Draco. His voice is low, vicious. "Not someone I'd like to be stealing from, if I were you."

Rodolphus's smile is cold. "I wouldn't say I fear Death, Constable Zabini." He flicks a bit of lint from the front of his cloak, looking bored. "Unlike your father." He meets Blaise's gaze. "Do ask your grandfather what he's been keeping in Crete."

Blaise's fingers tighten on his wand; Draco reaches over, rests his hand on Blaise's arm. "Don't," he says. "Uncle Roddy's just trying to provoke you." He scowls his uncle's way. "He always has been good at that." 

"It's a skill." Rodolphus steps forward, then stops as six wands are fixed on him. He laughs, claps his hands together. "How delightful. Such camaraderie and wealth of spirit. It'd be almost touching if you weren't all ridiculously outmatched." A snap of his fingers echoes through the crypt, and Draco's wand is jerked from his hand. It flies across the room along with the others', landing on the floor with a clatter a good ten feet away. Althea starts to lunge for hers, but Rodolphus tuts in warning, and the next thing Draco knows, she's flying backwards, her head hitting the side of one of the stone niches. She crumples to the floor, and Pansy cries out, running to her side. Draco's fists clench; he thinks about going after his uncle, slamming his fists into Rodolphus's face. 

"Bastard," Draco says, and he lurches forward, only to find himself stopped by his uncle's sweeping gesture, an invisible force holding him back. Draco tries to press forward; it leaves him breathless and trapped. 

"Don't," Rodolphus says, and his gaze swings towards Draco. "That wouldn't be wise, nephew." Another snap of his fingers and Draco's free, stumbling to his knees. He can't move again; he's stuck with his legs and hands pinned to the stone. He looks up at his uncle, who sweeps past him, his cloak trailing across the dusty floor. "I'm tired of this," Rodolphus says. He stops in front of Durant. "The cup, please." He holds his hand out, waits. 

"Fuck you," Durant says, and Draco winces as his uncle's hand slams into Durant's cheek, his heavy gold ring leaving behind a wide gash across Durant's skin. Blood streams down Durant's cheek, and Draco swears he hears a rustle of wings when he looks at Blaise. 

Fury twists across his best friend's face, and Blaise pushes Durant back behind him. "You'll have to go through me," he says, and there's a breathy growl to his voice, like the rustle of the wind in the midst of a storm. 

"If you insist." Rodolphus sounds disinterested. He raises his hand, his fingers curling towards his palm, and Blaise is pulled up onto his toes, his hands suddenly going to his throat, a gurgling noise coming from deep inside as his eyes widen, his breath catches. Rodolphus just looks at him for a moment, and then, with a flick of his wrist, he sends Blaise stumbling backwards into Harry, who catches him just before he hits the ground. Blaise is gasping, ragged and raspy, and Durant's looking at him in horror, distracted just long enough for Rodolphus to snap his fingers again, the force of his magic pulling the cup from Durant's grasp and sending it flying towards Harkaway, who catches it with one hand. 

"Got it, Dad," Harkaway says, and Rodolphus steps back, his gaze sweeping across the crypt. It stops on Draco, and Draco thinks his uncle's face softens, if only a bit. 

Rodolphus bends down to whisper in Draco's ear. "Pity you chose wrongly, boy. I could have given you power beyond anything you might have imagined. Now I have to share it with my bastard son, who hasn't a fraction of your talent and abilities." His fingers brush Draco's cheek; they're cold, almost slimy as they slip across his skin. Draco tries not to flinch away. 

His uncle straightens up. "We're done here," he says, and he looks at his son. "Open the timeshift." Harkaway nods and fumbles in his pocket for his wand. 

Eddie Durant looks as if he might sick up. "Jake," he says, but his brother won't look at him. "I'm sorry--"

"Don't bother, Eddie," Durant says, his voice heavy. "You've always been a grade-A fuckup, after all."

There's a ripple in the doorway, almost transparent. Draco can still see through it, can still see the peaks of the other mausoleums through the rain, but it's distorted just enough to be visible.

"It's ready," Harkaway says, his wand turning towards Draco and the others. Rodolphus reaches a hand out. His son gives him the cup; Rodolphus turns it between his palms, studying it, running a thin fingertip across the rim. He looks back at all of them, then smiles once more, that awful, terrifying twist of his mouth that makes him look half-mad, Draco thinks. 

"Until we meet again," Rodolphus says, and then he turns with a swirl of his cloak and walks towards the door. "Lock them behind," he says to his son, who nods and keeps his wand fixed on Draco. "Edward. Now."

Eddie Durant glances back at his brother, his face miserable. For a moment, Draco thinks he's going to protest, or help them, or _something._ And then he looks at Harkaway, whose wand dips towards Durant. 

"Make me, Eddie," Harkaway says, and there's a violent gleam in his eye that Draco doesn't like. "You know I'd enjoy taking him apart bit by bit. Dad would even let me."

"You're a fucking asshole," Eddie says, and then he takes a ragged breath, turns, and walks up to Draco's uncle. "Don't hurt him," he says to Rodolphus. "You promised if I got you that, you wouldn't--"

Rodolphus raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I won't hurt him," he says. "However, if he starves to death in this mausoleum, I shan't complain about that, shall I?" Before Eddie can react, Rodolphus pushes him through the door. He disappears, the ripples darkening for the briefest moment. Draco thinks he can see a room beyond, thick velvet curtains and carved furniture. "Les," his uncle says. "Don't toy with the prey."

And then his uncle's walking through, disappearing into the rippled air. Harkaway laughs and rolls his shoulders. His gaze flicks towards Draco; his eyes narrow. "Fuck you," Harkaway snaps, and his wand sweeps through the air. "Crucio!"

The pain slams into Draco, just as Harry shouts. It hurts; all of Draco's muscles clench and contract, his whole body shakes with the agony. And yet his mind stays clear, still, and he knows he's barely breathing with the fullness of the burning across his skin, through his flesh, but it's not like it's been before. He meets Harkaway's gaze, arches his neck, refuses to look away. He won't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him scream.

Another twist of Harkaway's wand and the iron door's closing, slamming shut just as Harkaway steps through, the ripples catching his body, sweeping him away. 

The latch clangs into place. 

It's pitch-black in the crypt. 

Draco falls forward, his body finally loosened from the binding spell his uncle had cast. He lies there for a moment, listening to the shallow, harsh sounds of his breath, to the movements of the others around him. There's a scrabble for the wands, and then a Lumos fills the space, lighting up the marble and granite again. Draco can see the dips and ridges of the floor, the dust and dirt that's collected in them. The Lumos parts; light moves to one side of the crypt, then closer to Draco.

"Is she all right?" he hears Durant ask, and Pansy murmurs something in response. 

And then Harry's beside Draco, one hand settling on Draco's shoulder as he pulls Draco to him, holds him tightly. His wand's in his other; the cool blue light of the Lumos shines down over Draco's shirt. 

"Here," Harry says, and Draco can feel Harry slide his own wand into his trouser pocket. He feels better with it there. Safer, in an odd way. "I have you."

The pain's fading, but Draco's body still shakes. He leans against Harry, feels the softness of Harry's shirt beneath his cheek, hears the steady beat of Harry's heart. Harry's palm strokes across Draco's hair; he presses his mouth to Draco's forehead, and Draco can feel the muted roil of worry Harry's trying to push down. 

"I'm fine," Draco manages to say. He twists his fingers in Harry's shirt and breathes in the smell of Harry, musky and sweaty-sweet. Draco closes his eyes, lets the last frissons of the Cruciatus slip away, leaving behind a deep, unpleasant ache in his body. He can hear voices: Durant's quiet rumble and Pansy's light, tense trill. 

When Draco opens his eyes again, Blaise is there next to him, looking at Harry. There are bruises on his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is raw and rough. "How are we going to get out of here, guv?"

Harry shakes his head. "I never found another way out." He sounds tired, defeated, and Draco hates that. He catches Harry's hand, holds it tightly. Tries to whisper in Harry's mind that everything will be all right, but he's too exhausted from the pain to project properly. Harry just looks away. 

Durant walks over, squats beside them. "Whitaker's still unconscious," he says. "Parkinson's managed to stop the blood flow from the wound on her head, but she hit pretty hard. Might have fractured her skull." He looks grim. "We need to find a way out of here soon." 

"I don't know how," Harry says. He presses his face against Draco's hair. "I couldn't even get a Patronus out for help, much less ring anyone up."

The look Durant gives Harry is kind, even though Draco knows he's struggling with his brother's betrayal, with the loss of the cup. They all are. Whatever hope Draco's had that things might go back to normal, that his life would be simple and easy in Grimmauld Place with Harry, is starting to slip away. At the moment he'd be happy to get the hell out of this fucking mausoleum before he expires himself. 

Durant's gaze slides to Blaise. "What the hell was that anyway?" he asks. "Jumping in front of me--"

"I thought the whole point was to keep the cup safe," Blaise says, and he doesn't look at Durant. He hasn't told him then, Draco realises. Durant has no idea what Blaise has just done, that he's saved his mate. Or maybe he does know, but he's not certain what it means. Draco wishes Blaise would stop being so bloody thick, that he'd trust Durant, that he'd believe that Durant might actually be in this for the long run. 

Then again, Draco's barely accepted that himself when it comes to Harry. 

Draco disentangles himself from Harry, pushes himself up, gripping the niches nearest to him as he staggers to his feet. The others look up at him. 

"What are you doing?" Harry asks, and Draco shrugs. 

"Trying to find a damned way out of here," he says. Pain stabs up his thigh when he takes a step and he winces. Harry's up in an instant, steadying him. 

"Don't be an idiot." Harry's hand is on Draco's elbow. "You've just been Crucioed--"

"And I ought to bloody well be used to it by now." Draco doesn't care that his voice is sharp. Pansy looks over at him, her face etched with worry, Althea stretched out at Pansy's knees, blood staining her temple and her cheek. Draco doesn't like how still she is, how grey her skin is. He glances back at Harry. "Durant's right. We need to get out of here."

"I think I know how." Blaise's voice is low. They all look at him. He stands up, his eyes closed, and he takes a deep breath. "You're not going to like it."

Draco doesn't like the sound of that. "What are you going to do?"

Blaise looks at him, and then he exhales, pulls out his wand, gripping it tightly. He stands in the middle of the mausoleum and raises it up, high. "I know you're watching," he says, his voice rising. It echoes in the quiet of the crypt. "You old bastard. If you want your fucking cup back, you better show your face."

Pansy clambers to her feet. "Blaise--"

But Blaise cuts her off. "Come on." He turns, and there's a set to his jaw that Draco knows all too well, that stubborn lift that means he's not turning back, he's not giving in. "Where the fuck are you--"

"Here," a voice says from the shadows, with just the faintest hint of a Welsh lilt. A man steps into the light of Blaise's Lumos, tall and broad-shouldered with a thick head of white hair. His eyes are a brilliant, shining blue as he looks around at all of them, his face stern and terrible. "Although I'm quite disappointed, Constable Zabini."

Blaise just looks at him, his mouth a thin line. The scent of decay and rot seeps through the crypt, sweetly foul, and Draco's stomach turns. "Jean-Marie Prudhomme Rosier," Blaise says. He glances over at Harry and Durant and Draco. "Otherwise known as Death."

Draco stills, a chill sliding through him. "I thought he was a necromancer." He feels Harry tense, his hand splayed against the small of Draco's back, but Harry doesn't say anything. 

Rosier gives him a small, tight smile. "This body once was," he says. "Consider it a perk of the trade." He looks over at Blaise. "You failed."

"If you want the cup," Blaise says evenly, "you have to help us get out of here. I know you can." He gestures around them. "You're Death. You've mastery over places like this."

"Perhaps." Rosier folds his arms over his chest. He moves closer; a cold draft slides through the crypt as he does. "But perhaps I could also take the cup from Durant's brother. Perhaps I don't need you at all."

Blaise doesn't look away from him. How, Draco doesn't know. He can barely stand to glance Rosier's way; when he does he's almost certain he can see the hint of the man's skull beneath his pale skin. "Perhaps," Blaise says. "But I'm willing to wager if you thought that was a good idea you would have gone for it before you approached me. You worked with Antonin Dolohov after all. I'm not fool enough to think you're on our side."

Rosier laughs. "You're not wrong." He circles Blaise. Durant starts to step forward; Blaise holds up a hand and Durant hesitates. Harry's fingers grip the back of Draco's shirt tightly. Rosier stops just behind Blaise's shoulder. "But you're changing the terms of our agreement. Asking for more assistance than I agreed to give."

"It's for the best." Blaise turns his head, meets Death's gaze. "You unlock this door. We'll find your bloody cup and bring it back."

"Don't dance with the devil, Blaise," Durant says, his voice low. Blaise doesn't look his way. 

"Well?" Blaise asks, and Rosier studies him.

"You may not like my terms." Rosier shifts, moves in front of Blaise again. "Perhaps you might be safer in here. I could come collect you when your time comes." His gaze slides to Althea spread across the floor, her breath shallow and too light. "This one first."

Pansy moves in front of Althea. "No," she says, and her chin goes up. "You won't."

Rosier's mouth twitches up. "And there's a reason why you're friends with Constable Zabini, yes?" He watches Pansy for a moment, his eyes bright in the light from the Lumoses. "You should tell her, you know, Constable Parkinson. That fear you have might just be unfounded."

"Thanks for the advice," Pansy says, her voice flat.

Rosier's smile widens. He glances at Blaise. "I could say the same for you. Although I suppose the truth is a terrifying prospect." Rosier falls silent for a moment, frowning, then he eyes Harry. "And you, Inspector Potter. I waited for you once, but you turned away from me. Pity. You would have had a lovely reunion with your family. Perhaps one day soon, however."

"I'd have to object to that," Draco says, and Rosier's attention falls on him. Draco's throat tightens, but he refuses to show any fear. 

"Brave boy." Rosier watches him, then his gaze flicks towards Durant. "I tried to warn you both off, you realise. Miss Whitaker too. Sent your loved ones to suggest you run. Just to see what you were made of, of course. Nothing more than that. But you're a stubborn lot, aren't you?" He looks pleased. "It's one of the charming things about humans, I must admit. Utterly bullheaded and willing to explain away signs and omens as just a bit of indigestion or fragments of a painful childhood." 

Durant looks over at Blaise. "We can't do this. Not with him."

"We don't have a choice." Blaise reaches a hand out; Durant takes it slowly, lets Blaise pull him close. Blaise draws in an unsteady breath, then turns to Rosier and says, "What do you want?"

"I want my cup," Rosier says simply. "And if I let you out of here, and you don't bring it to me, I will destroy everyone you hold dear, Constable Zabini." His gaze sweeps across all of them. "That goes for the rest of you. Your families. Your friends. I will find them, and I will take them for mine. Do I make myself clear?"

No one answers until Harry says, his voice quiet, "Perfectly."

Rosier turns towards him. "You're the protector now, Inspector Potter. Sworn and marked." His eyes are cold. "You had best find my cup and deliver it. Time is slipping away."

"And my father?" Blaise asks. "That deal remains in place."

It takes a moment for Rosier to nod. "For the nonce." He moves back towards the shadows. "I'll be watching." His gaze finds Draco. "Be careful out there, Unspeakable Malfoy. You might find dangers you aren't expecting."

The latch on the door clicks, and it swings open just enough to let a sliver of light shine through. 

When Draco looks back, Rosier's gone. 

"Don't think we're not going to talk about this later," Harry says to Blaise. "Whatever the fuck deal you've made with that wanker--"

"It was necessary." Blaise scowls at Harry. "Reckless maybe--"

Durant snorts. "I'm starting to think you've got some Gryffindor in you."

Blaise gives him an appalled glare. "Bite your tongue."

"Arseholes," Pansy says, her voice sharp. "Much as I'd love for you all to turn on each other at this very pivotal point in our day, I'd like a bit of help here." She's crouched beside Althea, setting stasis charms around the other woman's body. She glances up at them, her face drawn with unease. "We need to get Thea someplace stable. The sooner the better, and I'd rather a Healer be nearby, if I'm honest. I don't like the way she's breathing."

Durant looks chagrined. "Let me," he says, and he walks over, pulling his wand out as he does. 

Blaise turns to Harry. "I know you don't like this, guv," he says quietly. "I don't either. But that cup belongs to Death, and the way I see it, if we get it back from Lestrange and give it to Rosier, then we keep it out of Aldric Yaxley's hands."

"Unless Lestrange gives it to Yaxley immediately," Harry points out. 

"Maybe." Blaise frowns. "But I think he might not do that. Call it an intuition, but the way Lestrange is acting…" He shrugs. "It's not the way a man who's being puppeted acts."

Draco can't help but agree. "Blaise isn't wrong," he says, looking at Harry. "It wouldn't hurt us to go along with this. My guess is that Uncle Roddy's hiding out in one of those temporal shifts, like the one he took me to. I caught a glimpse of it before he disappeared. Expensive curtains and solid furniture. I'd look into properties owned by my aunt and uncle, see if there's any sort of magical fluctuation there." He rubs his hand over his face, suddenly tired. "I can say that whatever Uncle Roddy wants that cup for, it can't be good."

"Rather the understatement, that," Harry says. He sighs, then nods. "All right. Let's regroup at the hotel." His gaze flicks towards Althea; Durant's picking her up carefully, holding her long body in his arms. "Parkinson, I want you to get a Healer there stat."

Pansy brushes a stray lock of hair from her face. She looks tired, worried. "I'll ring up Georgie when we get there."

The rain's stopped when they step out of the mausoleum. The sky's still grey and wet, but there's a small break in the clouds that gives Draco hope. Perhaps all isn't lost. At least not completely. The crushed shells crunch beneath his feet as he walks down the path between the raised graves; he's a good ten feet in front of the others when he sees the first flutter of a dark robe. 

"Hands up," an Auror says, stepping out from behind one of the smaller mausoleums, his wand out, pointed at Draco. 

Draco draws up short. Before he can turn, they're surrounded on three sides, a good twenty or so wands turned on them. Durant swears from behind Draco; he still has Althea's limp body in his grasp. Blaise has his wand out, so do Pansy and Harry. Draco holds up his hands. "Under what authority," Draco asks, "are you stopping us?"

"Mine." A tall, burly man steps out from behind one of the memorial statues, Alma Espinoza at his side. She looks unhappy, but her wand's drawn.

"¿Qué pasa, Jake?" Espinoza asks. 

"Could be better, Alms." Durant gives her a steady look. "Didn't think you'd be the one here with this asshole."

The man chuckles, then extends his hand to Draco. Draco ignores it; the man drops it after a moment, covering by buttoning his black suit jacket. "Mike Wilkinson," he says. His thinning brown hair is ruffled by a faint breeze. "Just made Director of Magical Security for MACUSA, given our most recent one seems to have disappeared last night. Rumour has it he might have ended up in your neck of the woods." The smile he gives them is cool and pointed. "Hope not, seeing as how that might make all of this even more of an international fuckup." His gaze slides towards Durant. "Jake."

"Fucker," Durant says.

Wiklinson's smile widens. "God, but it's going to be good to see you in Oudepoort orange, isn't it? I always knew you'd turn out like that asshole brother of yours. Father too. Seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And it's sad that your friends will have to join you, but you have to understand that what all of you are doing here?" Wilkinson folds his hands together over his jacket. "It does break rather a number of international agreements regarding law enforcement jurisdictions."

"I think you'll find we were asked to help MACUSA out with a specialised mission," Harry says, and Wilkinson looks his way. 

"Ah, Inspector Potter." Wilkinson clears his throat. "One might think that, but it seems by doing so my predecessor acted in a manner that superseded the authority allowed him by our Congress, not to mention the President himself." He grimaces a bit. "So you see my quandary here. I'm afraid my people here are going to have to bring you in." 

Draco looks over at Harry. _Do you have the Portkey?_ He thinks it as clearly as he can, and when Harry's eyes widen, Draco knows he's heard. 

_I need thirty seconds for it to clear._ Harry's hand goes to his jeans pocket, hovering just above it. 

_All right._ Draco licks his bottom lip. His heart thuds in his chest. _I'll get you twenty-nine at least._ He meets Harry's gaze. _Do you trust me?_

Harry's face softens. "Always," he says, and as Draco spins on his heel, drawing his wand from his pocket, Harry pulls the Portkey from his own, activating it as he throws it to the ground. 

"Impedimenta!" Draco sweeps his wand in an arc, taking at least half the Aurors to his right out with one curse. He aims at another. "Stupefy!"

And then Blaise is beside him, shouting, "Protego!" The shield charm goes up a moment before a Petrificus Totalus hits. The curse bursts into bright purple sparks. 

"Well done," Draco says. He catches a glimpse of the Portkey behind them; a swirling blue circle's rising up from it, creating a portal through to the Department of Mysteries. He can hear voices from behind the portal opening, shouting to clear a space. Another curve of his wand and he casts a Diffindo. It hits an Auror in the wand arm; blood spurts across one of the white crypt roofs. 

"Not bad yourself." Blaise takes out another Auror with a Stupefy, barely breaking a sweat as he does so. "Watch your left."

Draco turns just in time to knock one more Auror off her feet with an Impedimenta. He sees Durant running into the portal with Althea still in his arms. Pansy follows them as well, her body quickly swallowed by the blue swirls. "Go on," he says to Blaise. "I'll hold them off."

Blaise gives him a sceptical look, but Draco just glares at him, ducking before another Diffindo strikes the shield charm. 

"Go," Draco says, and then Blaise is running for the portal, leaping through it just as a Stupefy comes after him. It disappears into the blue swell, and Draco hears a _fuck_ echoing from the other side. He looks at Harry, who's holding a hand out towards him. 

Another Diffindo hits the shield charm and cracks through it. It slams into Draco's shoulder in an explosion of pain, and he drops his wand, staggering forward. 

"Come on." Harry's face is pinched. The portal's growing smaller, spinning in on itself, and Draco knows he's not going to make it. There's too far to run, and he knows at the same time that Harry won't leave him here alone. 

So Draco does the only thing he can. 

He turns, racing towards Harry. "Do you love me?" he shouts, and Harry gives him a look as if he's mad. "Because I love you." He's almost at Harry now; he ducks just as a Stupefy sails over his shoulder. "Always, Harry. Remember that. _Always._ " And then his hands are in front of him, and, with all his strength, he pushes Harry straight back, into the closing swirl of the portal, and Harry's eyes are wide, his fingers trying to clasp around Draco's as he falls backwards, disappearing with a faint whisper as the portal snaps shut, the Portkey shuddering, twisting into a blackened scrap of metal. 

Draco falls onto the ground, the shells biting into his palms. He's breathing hard, and he's fucking terrified. He can feel his heart thudding in his chest, and his shoulder hurts so fucking badly. Draco doesn't know what he's done. 

But Harry's safe, and that's all that matters right now. 

Shiny black shoes stop on the path beside him. Draco looks up; Wilkinson crouches beside him, his face impassive. "Well," Wilkinson says after a moment. "I suppose you'll have to do then, won't you?" He gives Draco a bright, chilling smile filled with teeth, and Draco can't help but think of a shark, circling in chum-filled waters. "I'm sure you'll enjoy your time in Oudepoort, Unspeakable Malfoy. It's not as if your family isn't well-acquainted with prisons, after all, wouldn't you say?" He stands and looks over Draco's head. "Bind him."

"Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?" Draco knows he's pushing, being provocative. It's the way he's always handled abject terror, hiding it behind a certain weak bravado. Hands pull him up, none too gently; pain shoots through his arm as the Aurors bind his wrists behind his back with an Incarcerous.

Wilkinson looks back at him. "Homeland security laws, Malfoy." His gaze is cold. "I can keep your sorry ass for as long as I want, no questions asked. All I have to prove is that you're a threat to national security, and I'm pretty damn certain that won't be hard to do." His gaze falls to Draco's forearm, to the Mark that's barely visible beneath the cuff of his sleeve. "Your own government doesn't want you, after all." He glances at Espinoza. "Take him in for booking."

Espinoza nods, turning to Draco. She doesn't say anything, not until Wilkinson's halfway down the path, the other Aurors either following him or unjinxing their comrades whom Draco and Blaise had taken down. Draco's ridiculously proud of the number that are still sprawled across the crushed shells.

"I tried to keep them away," Espinoza says quietly. She loosens the Incarcerous, just enough that Draco's arm eases a bit. His right sleeve is drenched in blood; Espinoza discreetly staunches it with a charm. "But it's as if Wilkinson knew right where you'd be." She hesitates, then murmurs, "He made us wait until Lestrange left." 

Draco looks over his wounded shoulder at her. "I'm fairly certain my uncle's connected to Aldric Yaxley."

"Not surprised," Espinoza says. She takes Draco by the elbow. "This whole thing has been a giant shitshow. Tom Graves is missing, Wilkinson's after all of you guys." Her mouth tightens. "I don't know what's up any more, man." 

To be honest, neither does Draco. He glances at Espinoza. "Tell Hermione Granger I need her. Can you do that for me?"

"I'll try," Espinoza says under her breath, the she calls out, "Hey, Sammy. Help me get this prick to Oudepoort, will you?" Her fingers squeeze Draco's good arm gently. "I'll do my best," she whispers. "I promise you, all right?"

That's the best Draco can hope for. 

Sammy walks over and grabs Draco's other arm. "Holding?" he asks, and Espinoza nods. 

Draco takes a deep breath, exhales. 

Thinks of Harry. 

Whatever he's going to face in Oudepoort, he doesn't care. It was worth it to make sure Harry was safe. 

Draco looks up. A woman's standing in front of the Robichau mausoleum, small and thin, her blonde curls shining in the faint traces of sunlight, her face filled with sadness. 

She raises her hand; it's nearly translucent. 

_Be strong,_ she says, and Draco doesn't know how he hears her. No one else seems to. _Trust Harry. Whatever happens. Trust him._

I do, Draco thinks, as the world starts to swirl away in a blur of green and grey. 

Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know! I'm so, so, SO sorry for the cliffhanger--in my defense, this was always where this book was meant to end. I absolutely promise Our Favourite Malfoy will make it through his current woes, but you'll have to wait for the next installment of the series to find out how. :D 
> 
> Speaking of which, although I'm as excited to continue this series as I hope you are to read it, the fourth book, Set Me Free, won't start posting until May 13. This will let me and my team rest up in preparation for the final push, as well as not only let me celebrate my birthday in a fortnight but also embark on a reread of my own canon so I can take this story to its best conclusion. (After a million-plus words it's good to take a moment to make sure I haven't managed to joss myself, lol!) In the meantime, check out [daysundercover's Murder Board](http://daysundercover.tumblr.com/post/165319144987/tales-from-the-special-branch-seven-four-alpha) again--there might be some questions answered now. (Or not!)
> 
> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm always taking Special Branch asks there.


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